Praying to the Stars
by Someryn
Summary: A grieving Harry Potter returns for his final year at Hogwarts after defeating Voldemort and finds himself caught between two emerging factions: pureblood tradition versus muggleborn ideology. Starts out angsty and is dark at times, but overall a hopeful story. AU after the Battle of Hogwarts begins. Eventual Harry/Ginny/Hermione.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"_Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break."_

–_William Shakespeare_

It's been ninety-one days, and the pain is still there, still ever present and looming with every breath. It gives a faint blackish tinge to the whole world, lurking like a wraith and striking with razor-sharp grief every time his thoughts approach something resembling normal, or, god forbid, happy.

Harry slouches down, pulling his toboggan further down on his head to cover his scar, which resisted all of Hermione's attempts this morning to cover with charms, and the last thing he wants is attention. Chattering students are crowding around Hogwarts Express like nothing unusual ever happened at their school, like life is normal, hugging parents and dragging baggage into their chosen compartments, but fortunately no one gives him a second glance.

He hasn't given interviews to anyone except a few written statements that Luna published in the Quibbler for him, but already Rita Skeeter is writing a biography of his first 18 years on the planet, and reporters haven't stopped pestering him since the Battle at Hogwarts, asking him what he was doing all those months while he was on the run, how he feels about everyone who was killed.

He stops in his tracks, and Mrs. Weasley almost runs into him with the luggage cart. He cannot think about _that day_, so he forces his mind to go perfectly blank, concentrating on re-forming his mental stone dome, smooth, sans blemish, and impenetrable. After a few seconds, he can breathe again.

His emotions shielded once more, he turns to Mrs. Weasley, not quite meeting her eyes. "Sorry, I thought I lost something, but I haven't." Only he had. Mrs. Weasley nods briskly, and gestures for them to continue.

Sheer necessity borne out of desperation and sweating, sleepless nights has taught him Occlumency; wouldn't Snape have been shocked?

The train looks just as he remembers it, which is silly, of course it should - it's only been a little over a year since he last rode on it. But Hermione is staring at the gleaming Express also, taking in the noise and cheerful bustle as students crowd on with rapt attention. She's probably taken note of a half-dozen things already that he would never have noticed.

Ginny looks pale, the freckles dusting her cheeks standing out vividly as she clutches the luggage cart. Death Eaters took Luna from this same train last Christmas - was Ginny witness to that? Somehow Harry has never asked her. He isn't sure he wants to know - there is only so much pain he can bear at once.

Mrs. Weasley claps her hands together, drawing their eyes back to her. Her eyes look a little watery, but determined. "Come children -" she pauses. "No, none of you are children anymore. Come get your trunks, my dears, and enjoy your last year at Hogwarts."

Harry nods numbly and reaches out to grab his and board the train, but Mrs. Weasley grabs him into a hug before he can step away. "I love you, my dear," she says as she squeezes him tightly. "Have a wonderful year at Hogwarts."

Stunned, Harry steps back, fumbling for the handle of his trunk. How could she _say _something like that? She is already reaching for Hermione, though, whispering something that makes Hermione's eyes fill with tears as she hugs back, before nodding and grabbing her own trunk. Ginny is last, and her mother holds her for a long moment, Ginny looking distinctly uncomfortable, before her mother takes a deep breath and lets her go.

Without looking back, the three of them trudge onto the train, dropping their trunks off at the baggage compartment before standing in the middle of the aisle, receiving annoyed looks from students who have to squeeze past them in the narrow corridor. Harry doesn't know how long they stand there until he realizes that they need to find a compartment.

He starts walking, keeping his eyes down to avoid making eye contact with anyone, and Hermione and Ginny fall in line behind him. He has a vague intention to head for the back of the train, lock the compartment, and sleep until they arrive.

Passing by full compartment after full compartment, he starts to doubt his plan. It seems like there are more on the train than in the past, but he's probably just making that up out of frustration. Purely by luck, Neville comes crashing into them a few minutes later, in desperate pursuit of someone heading in the opposite direction. "Sorry, Harry," he pants, pulling him off the floor effortlessly. "I should have been watching where I was going, but some punk came in here and threatened Luna, and I sort of lost it." He shrugs one broad shoulder. "I can deal with him later though."

He looks like he's waiting for Harry to respond, but there doesn't seem to be anything to say. After a moment, something indecipherable crosses Neville eyes, and he turns and heads back from the compartment he had come barreling out of, and Harry follows.

Luna, Seamus, and a younger Gryffindor girl he vaguely recognizes as an acquaintance of Ginny's are sitting in the far corner. Harry sits down across from the others and holding his bowed head up with his hands, feeling Ginny and Hermione sit down on either side of him after a moment, and a silence falls over the group. Even Seamus, who had been playing with the Gryffindor girl's hair while she giggled, stops flirting and stares at the newcomers.

After a long, awkward moment, Neville opens his mouth to speak. He might not always look it, but he is extraordinarily brave at times, but Harry is not in the mood. "No, Neville," he says quietly, causing the other's mouth to snap shot as if spelled. "No, I did not have a good summer, and no, I don't want to talk about it."

He isn't being fair, he knows that - Neville is extremely considerate of other people's feelings, but the part of himself that would feel something as human as guilt is long dead. Hermione shifts against his right side - probably wanting to reprimand for his rudeness - but she is fairly lacking in social graces these days too, and he ignores her. He closes his eyes and brings up his wall again, mentally fortifying it with steel framework.

The younger Gryffindor girl, of all people, looks like she is going to ask something next, but Ginny speaks up. "No, Amanda, I'm not okay," she hisses, her voice breaking. "My brother is _dead,_ how could I be okay?"

And there it is - their wound is bleeding raw in front of everyone. Harry can't hide a flinch as Ginny rises without a word and leaves the compartment, slamming the sliding door behind her. Neville, Seamus, and Amanda watch with open mouths. At his right, Hermione clutches her shaking arms and cuts little crescent moons of red into translucent skin.

Returning to Hogwarts is a mistake, just as Harry knew it would be. He leans his head back, ignoring the dull pain as it thuds against the wall. The cart is silent as death for the rest of the ride to Hogsmeade, but Harry can't bring himself to feel badly for the clinging atmosphere of despair they have brought to their other friends.

Ron Weasley is ninety-one days dead, and Harry has found that nothing much at all matters anymore.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

_"Man, when he does not grieve, hardly exists. "  
_

_- Antonio Porchia_

The Great Hall looms overhead with a starry night sky that reminds Harry of months camping in the forest, searching for Horcruxes he wasn't sure they could find. It's noisy and bustling as everyone begins to eat once the Hat calls out "RAVENCLAW!" for the last Hogwarts student. He hadn't been imagining things; there are many more first years than usual this year, and Harry even saw a few kids standing in line who had to be older than twelve, but he doesn't pursue the thought.

Beside him, Ginny reaches out and plucks a single orange from the fruit bowl. She slowly begins to peel it, staring straight ahead, and he doubts she will eat anything else tonight. He can trace blue veins clearly all the way up her arm as she twists the peel off.

On his other side, Hermione meticulously takes small helpings of mixed vegetables, fruit, and fish as if she's got the food pyramid on the inside of her eyelids, and swallows in all down within three bites. She glances at Harry and Ginny, then pushes back her chair and leaves the Hall, which is highly irregular before the Headmistress makes her after-Feast remarks, but no one tries to stop her.

Once the deserts fade away into nothing - neither Harry nor Ginny even glancing at them - Professor McGonagall rises, leaning on an elegant black cane as she makes her way to the podium. "Welcome to Hogwarts, new first years, and welcome back, to everyone else." The intense Scottish brogue is still heavy in her voice, and it is nice to know that some things haven't changed.

"I am delighted that Hogwarts is open to teach young witches and wizards once more. Most students will be re-taking their previous year, if they were present at Hogwarts. Last year's _education_-" her mouth twists - "left something to be desired. Anyone who is too advanced for some of his or her classes will be eligible for private tutoring with higher years or with professors.

She pauses, looking around slowly. "I will not try to ignore or downplay the heavy toll the war has taken on us all. To that end, an additional class will be placed on your schedules - a small group session that will meet thrice a week. While this class is required for everyone, I would also like to note that the door of every professor at this school is open to you to talk to, about anything you need to discuss, at any reasonable hour. We too, have experienced much grief over these past years, but the perspective of age and experience will enable us to help you recover.

"Do not feel constrained by house bonds, or feel that you will be hurting your Head of House's feelings if you would feel more comfortable speaking with another professor. Above all else, let us strive for inter-House unity as we never have before, and promote healing however we may best achieve it." A warm smile breaks out over her creased face. "It does my heart good to see so many students back. A very good evening to you all, and I look forward to seeing all of you tomorrow morning for classes."

A general murmur that might have been students thanking her breaks out, and Harry gets up, Ginny at his heels. "A fucking grief counseling group, absolutely bloody amazing," she snarls, stomping along beside him. "I'd bet ten galleons it's inter-House, too. I swear, if Malfoy so much as opens his mouth about Ron, I'll castrate him."

Harry gives her a sideways look. That's pretty aggressive, even for Ginny, these days. As usual, Harry can't think of anything to say, so they walk the rest of the way back to their dormitories in silence.

When they reach the base of the stairwell, Harry opens his mouth - he's not sure to say what - but Ginny is already storming up the girls' staircase, muttering something about not needing help from old bints or sob-fests.

He continues to the seventh year boys' room by himself, eyes on the floor's swirling wood patterns as he opens the door into his dormitory. Dean is in there, carefully placing folded clothes into his chest of drawers. He looks up when Harry walks in, but, to Harry's muted surprise, doesn't greet him.

Of course, it doesn't really matter, so moves on toward his own bed, collapsing there and drawing the curtains closed around him. Only nine more months until he can leave Hogwarts. At least he doesn't have to listen to the incessant chatter like in the Great Hall for dinner. A few minutes later, the door opens again, and Harry hears the heavy footsteps that he has come to associate with Neville's deliberate walk.

"There you are, Dean! Why didn't you sit with us on the train?"

There's a pause, as if Dean is considering ignoring Neville, but he finally responds, "Didn't want to disturb the little pureblood's meeting."

A long silence, as if Neville is fighting for control over himself. "That's a really horrible thing to say, Dean. We've never been like that - it's never been about that."

"Oh yeah? I saw that sixth year, Dustin Laforge, talking to you lot."

"Talking? He wasn't talking, Dean, he was insulting Luna! I'd have kicked his sorry arse if I hadn't run into Harry.

"Whatever." Harry hears bed curtains being drawn, but Neville doesn't walk away.

"We've been roommates for six bloody years, Dean, and I guess I thought we were friends, too. Stupid of me, really. Seamus was right, you have changed." It's a few long minutes before Neville draws the curtains closed on his own bed, but Dean never says a word.

Seamus stumbles up half an hour later - he's found beer somewhere, and he passes out on his bed in the far corner of the room. Even the drunk Irishman manages to completely avoid Ron Weasley's bed, still sitting in its place to the left of Harry's, bereft of only a battered old trunk and the red-haired boy himself.

* * *

Morning breaks too early for Harry's preferences, but he knows staying behind and skipping classes will just catch the attention of Professor Sinistra, the new head of Gryffindor, and he'll be forced to go downstairs anyway. He gets up slowly, rubbing at his lower back. He hasn't slept well, but that's hardly unusual.

After a quick shower, he dresses and heads into the Common Room. Hermione is sitting on the edge of a sofa in wrinkled robes, bloodshot eyes clearly indicating how her night was spent, and he waits for her to stand up and follow him out of the portrait hole.

They all have their dirty secrets, the three of them, but one of Hermione's isn't going to be a secret for much longer. A pounding on the stone floors beneath them, and Ginny sprints up, fiery hair in disarray as she gasps, "Couldn't wait for me, arseholes?" Harry just looks at her, and after a minute she drops her eyes, and falls into step on his other side.

The noise level in the Great Hall is thankfully a little more muted than last night, though Harry still winces at the din. When he hears noise in the Great Hall, all he can think of are screams and spells and – the wall springs into his mind again, even thicker than before. He's getting better at this.

They seat themselves, Ginny and Harry ignoring the food set out, and Hermione conjuring a measuring cup and meticulously pouring a half-cup bran flakes into a small bowl and eating it dry.

McGonagall comes by not long after, handing out the timetables. It seems there are some duties the new Headmistress won't relinquish. Gryffindor table is much more crowded now, and she calls out, "Granger, Hermione," and Hermione looks up, but doesn't so much as open her mouth.

Harry sighs. "She's here, Professor."

McGonagall turns and finally spots Hermione, handing her the schedule. "Ms. Granger, didn't you hear me?"

Hermione tilts her head to the side, brown eyes steady on McGonagall's. "She doesn't talk," Ginny says bluntly, picking at a hangnail.

McGonagall just stands there for a moment, mouth open. "I see," she says finally. She hands Harry and Ginny their timetables before walking away, an expression of forced serenity on her face.

"Great, Hermione," Ginny says, rolling her eyes. "Now we're a pity project."

Harry groans as he reads the timetable McGonagall handed him. He has something called Group Therapy next period, before any of his real classes. It's three mornings a week, taking the space of what otherwise would have been a free period. Delightful.

He snatches Ginny's schedule out of her hands, despite her protests, and grunts. No, her little counseling session is in the evenings. Looking over Hermione's shoulder, he sees that hers is right after lunch. Bloody brilliant.

He grabs a couple pieces of toast and wraps them in a napkin before leaving the Great Hall. He might get hungry later, though he doubts it. Ginny protests his abrupt departure, saying something scathing, he is sure, but he can't stand to be with the two of them, a constant reminder to himself of how fucked up the three of them are now.

As the din in the Great Hall fades away behind him, he can feel his heart rate returning to a normal level, and consciously slows down his breathing. The wall stands firm in his mind.

Halfway to the assigned classroom, Luna falls in step with him. "Hello, Harry," she says simply, giving him a small smile. She is wearing a belt made out of chewing gum wrappers over her robes, her long blonde hair tucked behind her ears.

Remembering how he acted on the train ride yesterday, he responds as politely as he can. "Morning. Are you going to the counseling class now, too?"

She turns to look at him. "Yes, I am. I know I wasn't as close to Ronald as you were, but his death and the way he died made me very sad, too. I cried for days, and Daddy didn't know what to do with himself, I'm afraid." Her eyes shine with tears. "It's the worst pain I've felt since my mother died when I was a little girl."

Harry isn't any better at comforting crying girls than he was when he was an awkward fifth-year confronted with a sobbing Cho Chang, but he wraps his arm around Luna's shoulders, and they walk together into the assigned classroom.

A middle-aged woman is already there, sitting on the floor, with a few other students scattered around in a half-hearted attempt at a circle. "Oh," she says, rising. "I see we've already started on today's lesson." Harry releases Luna, and the woman leads her gently to sit down next to her.

Uncomfortable, Harry sits down cross-legged on Luna's other side. Normally he would want to be as far away from this woman, this symbol of everything he does not want to share with strangers, but Luna needs him. So he stays by her, squeezing her knee and trying to conjure up some feeling of empathy for his friend. Emotion shielding is an all-or-nothing affair though, and he knows his attempt at a smile falls far short.

After a few minutes, Luna's tears slowly fading, the bell rings for class to start. Harry only recognizes a few other faces in the room. Dennis Creevey is here, and Lavender Brown slips in at the last moment. A Slytherin girl looks vaguely familiar, too, hiding behind long black hair and dark eye makeup. Finally, the woman speaks up.

"Good morning, everyone. I'm Leonora Baggins - I'm a Mediwitch at St. Mungo's with a specialization in mental health, and I'm leading this year's group counseling sessions.

"I am very aware that I am a stranger to all of you, but I assure you, not only does Hogwarts hold a special place in my heart, but this War took my brother and my father from me, and I have found myself having to use the same methods I teach others to help them overcome their grief on myself." She smiles, but Harry can see that the pain in her eyes, in her voice, is very real.

"I am not a professor, nor do you need to address me by any title. I am simply your guide in overcoming the pain of loss, and hopefully, eventually, your friend. Are there any questions?"

The Slytherin girl with the dark makeup speaks up. "Tracey Davis. If this isn't a class, then what's forcing us to come to it?"

Leonora smiles. "I, too, was a Slytherin, Tracey, and I assure you, the first topic the Headmistress and I discussed was how to ensure participation. Suffice it to say, you will not graduate from Hogwarts if you or anyone else misses this class, unless you have an excused absence from a professor or Madame Pomfrey. I will not force you to contribute, but you must be present for every class." Tracey nods, apparently resigned to attending.

Leonora snaps her fingers, and the lamps in the room dim to almost total darkness, while a wand movement conjures up a white taper with a small flickering flame in her hands. "_Eligo silencio_," she says softly, and Harry feels his throat dry up. "Until I release this spell, only the person holding this candle may speak. For today, please discuss whatever has been bothering you most since you came back to Hogwarts. If you have nothing you wish to share today, please just pass the candle on. I will begin."

The flickering shadows that cover the circle of students does have an effect, Harry has to admit. He feels like they are in a secret club, that they are the only people in the world right now, bound together only by loss and pain.

Leonora is speaking. "My first thought when I returned to Hogwarts for the first time in twenty years was how unhappy my brother and father would have been to see the division that has sprung up between our ancestral House and the other three Houses." There is no blame in her voice, but she looks around the circle evenly. "Even in grief, most students cling to what is familiar, and fear overwhelms better emotions so easily." Harry feels like there is some heavy significance to what she is saying, but he's missing it somehow. He'll have to ask – no, it doesn't matter, anyway. Who cares what this psychobabble lady thinks?

Leonora passes on the candle to a plump young girl who is introduces herself as Ashleigh, a second-year in Hufflepuff. After a moment, her lower lip trembles, and she passes the candle on, to a tall Asian boy who is a sixth-year in Ravenclaw. None of the students say more than a few words, until the candle is passed to Dennis Creevey, who with his mousy hair and plump cheeks looks almost exactly like his deceased older brother.

Dennis holds the candle for a few minutes, staring at his feet, and Harry begins to wonder if there will be time for everyone to go before the period ends, but finally Dennis takes a deep breath and opens his mouth. "My brother Collin died at the Battle of Hogwarts in June, because he snuck back in to fight with the other Hogwarts students and the Order of the Phoenix, even though he was too young. He was a really good older brother, and he was so proud of me getting into Hogwarts just like him. I keep forgetting he's dead and I'll look for him in the hallways." A fat tear rolls down Dennis's cheeks, and Leonora moves up beside him to hug him. He sobs unashamedly into her shoulder, and reaches out blindly to pass the candle on.

Tracey Davis is next, and she couldn't be more different. "All I thought about is how much I want to get out of here, but my father said to stay, so that's what I'm doing." She passes the candle on, and there are more tears out of a few students as the candle passes to the other side of the circle, until it's Lavender's turn.

Harry doesn't know what happened from one moment to the next, but one second Lavender is taking the candle with a calm expression, opening her mouth to speak, and the next she is knelt forward on the ground, sobbing into her knees, wailing words that are too muffled to understand clearly, but he hears the word "Ron" over and over again.

His skin prickles, and he feels a faint stirring of confusion and anger. She barely knew Ron - what right does she have to act like her whole world is turned upside down? Leonora walks over and places a gentle hand on Lavender's back. Lavender flinches, then begins to wail even harder. How is this helping?

He takes the candle from Lavender's loose grip, shakes his head, and passes it to Luna, who stares at it for a long moment as if mesmerized by the flames. After Lavender's sobs have quieted a bit, Luna says softly, "I feel sad for everyone who is grieving for someone they loved. But then I feel a bit better when I remember that love isn't supposed to be easy or painless, and how badly we hurt is reflective of how much love we have for those we've lost."

Lavender is almost completely silent by this time, and Luna's final words fall over a heavy hush, as if even the walls are absorbing what she is saying. Then Leonora is taking back the candle and blowing out the flame. "I couldn't have said it better myself, my dear. Class dismissed."

* * *

Author's Note: I guess this is the best place to give a brief introduction to this story - the basic premise has been floating around my head for a few months. Mostly it stems from the same complaint so many HP fans have: the end of Deathly Hallows, up to an including the epilogue, was just too damn perfect to make it satisfying/believable. So here's my take on what would happen if just one major character had died (and there will be more details of Ron's death later on), how would it affect his two best friends and his little sister? For one, obviously, Harry decides to go back to Hogwarts, but what else?

And how would the purebloods, (dark, neutral, and light) feel about the sudden cultural changes storming their way from the pro-Muggle and pro-Muggleborn backslash in the wake of the war? How about the Muggleborns? But I am getting ahead of myself.

For now, the focus is on grief - the way each of them (Harry, Ginny, and Hermione) try to deal with their loss is how someone I know has dealt with it (sans Occlumency, of course), so their methods may seem unrealistic to you, but I assure you, at least one real person has reacted this way before.

Anyway, thanks for reading this far - and let me know your thoughts if you get a chance.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_"Suppressed grief suffocates, it rages within the breast, and is forced to multiply its strength."_

_ - Ovid  
_

Charms is next, followed by Transfiguration. After almost two years spent dedicating his time to learning the strongest offensive and defensive spells known to the wizarding world, Harry finds himself woefully behind in non-dueling incantations. He can cast one of the strongest _Protego_s in the British Isles, he can Stupefy someone long enough to knock them out for three days, but he cannot, for the life of him, turn his arm into a stick.

Human transfiguration is one of the most advanced techniques taught at Hogwarts, and Harry believes it. Ginny sits tapping her wand against the desk, staring at something unseen as she mutters the spell under her breath. She's supposed to be good at this class, it being one of the main reasons she was allowed to enter as a seventh-year, but she's not looking like it today. Hermione, on his other side, is staring intently at her left arm, prodding it with her wand. She apparently won't speak even for class, so she's doing the spell non-verbally, which puts her progress about on average pace with the class.

McGonagall keeps looking over at their table as if she's forgetting that she won't need to be congratulating the muggle-born girl for being the fastest to figure a new spell out anymore. Instead, Terry Boot from Ravenclaw takes the honor, followed by Dean, who is sitting as far apart from Seamus and Neville as possible. Though to be fair to Hermione, her arm is slowly turning a muddy brown, so she might finish it yet before class is over.

She gets close, but class ends before her arm is the right texture. Harry sees her bite her lip in frustration, before she swipes her wand angrily and her arm returns to normal. At one point in time, he would have reassured her that she was still brilliant and she would get the hang of it soon, but he's not that Harry anymore, so he says nothing. Though she's not that Hermione, either, so perhaps that makes it okay. He isn't sure.

On his way out the door with the two girls at his heels, someone grabs his arm. He frowns. Blaise Zabini, a tall Slytherin boy he has never talked to, is tugging him away from Ginny and Hermione. "A word, Potter?" He doesn't wait for an answer, and Harry slips his wand out of his pocket and into his hand before following. Hermione and Ginny watch him go, but don't try to follow.

Zabini doesn't go far, just into an empty classroom a couple doors down. Already waiting are the Slytherin girl Tracey Davis from his grief class, Michael Corner, and three or four other students Harry doesn't recognize, all standing or leaning against the stack of desks, watching him with some inscrutable in their eyes.

Harry tenses instantly, raising his wand, some of the pre-June instincts he thought he had forgotten taking over. Is this an ambush? A girl with cropped hair notices his reaction, and kneels down to set her wand at her feet. Tracey Davis grimaces, but does the same, and pretty soon everyone, including Blaise, is setting down their wands in the wizarding world's symbol of peaceful intentions.

Harry lowers his wand, but doesn't let go, though he does nod. He is listening.

Blaise looks at Tracey, who looks at the girl with the spiky hair, who nods and walks over to Harry. "I'm Astoria Greengrass, as you obviously don't recognize me." She looks at him expectantly, but he doesn't know what she's waiting for. "Daphne Greengrass's younger sister?" He still looks blank, and she rolls her eyes. "Honestly, Potter, do you notice _anything_? Know who _any _of us are?"

Blaise makes a subtle slicing motion with his hand, and Tracey Davis speaks into the silence. "The point is, Potter, we're all purebloods from old families. We thought a long time about how to bring this up with you subtly, but every way we thought of wouldn't have worked on you. So we'll ask you straight out: what are you planning on doing to us?"

Harry blinks. "Nothing."

They're all waiting for him to continue. "Surely you can't expect us to be so naive," Astoria insists. "Muggle studies is a required class as of next year, you hate Slytherins, and the Ministry's opinions are whatever yours are at the moment. You've stripped Draco Malfoy of his ancestral wealth to fund an orphanage for Muggle children. And you expect us to believe that we're safe?"

He's getting annoyed now. He wants to be away from here – he wants to be back in his bed. But it's always _politics_ with these Slytherins. He thought he had left that behind when he killed Voldemort. "Don't expect me to think like you lot," he snaps back. "It's pretty simple in my mind. I oppose the Dark Arts, I opposed Voldemort. Don't support either of those things? Then I'll leave you alone if you'll return the favor."

Astoria strides toward him. "You're missing the point, Potter," she says, looking like she's fighting the urge to shout at him.

"Then what is your point? I don't have any hidden agenda – you're just looking for one because all of _you_ do. You can come talk to me again whenever you decide you're not going to try to trick the 'truth' out of me or get me to slip and say something you can use against me."

Tracey Davis twists her mouth like she's holding back from saying something cutting, and no one else speaks. After a moment, Harry slides his wand back into his pocket and leaves them all staring at him.

A few minutes later, he slides into the empty seat at Hermione's left and grabs an apple out of the fruit basket, taking bites mindlessly.

"What did that Slytherin Zabini want?" Ginny asks, trying to look nonchalant.

Harry shrugs. "He and a bunch of other purebloods are convinced I'm out to kill them all or something, because I made the Malfoys use most of their money to build an orphanage in London."

He and Ron had joked about all the things he do with his money once he beat Voldemort. With Ron, it was never _if_ they won, it was _when _they won. They'd laughed over a few outlandish ideas, like buying up the Chudley Cannons and throwing money at them until they became a decent team, but Ron had suggested getting the Malfoys to fund a Muggle orphanage in almost-seriousness, as a way of both giving Lucius Malfoy his just deserts, and ensuring that every child in London had a loving place to take care of them if they were not wanted in their own homes.

After the Battle and the pent-up rage and the hopeless nights spent trying to sleep in the twins' room because he sure as hell couldn't bring himself to walk into Ron's, Harry hadn't been able to get the thought out of his head. Finally, he'd owled Lucius Malfoy and said he would keep him out of Azkaban and his wife and son's name clear if he would voluntarily forfeit one half of his wealth. He hadn't liked wielding his influence with the Ministry that way, but Ron's suggestion was more important than his own reluctance.

The ensuing struggle with the Malfoys had not been an easy battle, but he had proof of Lucius having killed over three dozen Muggle-borns and Muggles over the past couple of years alone that he could furnish through Pensieve memories of Voldemort's thoughts, and easily get Lucius sent to Azkaban. Of course, the elder Malfoy deserved to rot there anyway, but that would mean his wealth would have passed down safely to his son, and Lucius had had quite enough of Azkaban. He knows he's pretty stubborn, but even the Malfoys had been surprised by the vehemence with which he'd demanded the donation.

When he'd finally agreed to let them make the donation under their "own" terms, into a charity he set up specifically for the task, and agreed to let Narcissa contact the Daily Prophet and try to salvage their reputation with some positive publicity, they'd given up and written the check on the spot.

Ron isn't coming back - Harry isn't stupid, but for some reason that uphill struggle with the Malfoys had felt right, like he is atoning for not being able to save his best friend. He only regrets that Ron never told him anything else he wanted to do during his life - it would have given him purpose. Now, he is adrift at a school he outgrew years ago, having to raise his hand to speak and being herded from class to class.

A tug on his sleeve makes him look up from staring at his lap. Hermione is holding her timetable, one finger pointing to her group therapy session, scheduled for her next period, and looking at him questioningly.

He sighs. "It was stupid. Luna was in my group with me. She cried."

Hermione looks frustrated, like he's not answering her unspoken question "I can't read your bloody mind, Hermione," he snaps, and feels a twinge of regret as Hermione flinches and carefully folds her timetable back up, despite the fact that her hands are shaking. Without a backward glance, she grabs her bookbag and leaves the Great Hall.

"Honestly, don't you think she's gone through enough?" Ginny is scowling at him, her eyes narrowed, in that way she has when she is thinking about drawing her wand on someone.

"I don't know, Ginny," he says tiredly. "Can I get back to you on that?"

Ginny looks outraged, and Harry quickly pushes his chair back before things can degenerate further between the two of them. He doesn't have the energy for a fight with his former girlfriend. Apparently no one has ever tried simply ignoring her, because Ginny just gapes in astonishment as he walks out and heads back to Gryffindor Tower without her.

He meets Neville coming out a side corridor, looking like he's been in the sun. He nods, and continues walking, but Neville falls into step beside him, and they walk in silence back up their dormitory. As Harry reaches his bed, he realizes Neville is still beside him, the bigger boy looking uncharacteristically calm and serious.

"I realize you don't want to talk about this, but I'm going to press the issue, because you're my friend. Harry sinks back into his pillows and closes his eyes. He brings up his walls, complete with Hungarian Horntails prowling the perimeter. He only wishes Occlumency could shield him from sound, too.

"...going to patronize you and say that I know exactly how you feel, but I've lost my parents, just like you have, and Ron was a good mate of mine, too." Neville is sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at him earnestly. "I'm pretty sure you're not talking to anyone else, or I wouldn't bug you about this. Just spend thirty seconds telling me what you're feeling, and I'll leave you be."

"I don't feel anything, Neville," and for the first time since that morning ninety-two days ago, he wonders if that's the way it should be. He pushes the thought away, and embraces his shield. "Nothing at all."


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_"Grief is the agony of an instant; the indulgence of grief the blunder of a life."_

_-Benjamin Disraeli_

Harry sits bolt upright in his bed, a thick beam of moonlight shining directly on his head through his open bed curtains. He is still wearing his school robes, though someone has taken off his shoes, and he has the horrible taste in his mouth that comes from too long without brushing one's teeth.

The dormitory is still; all the beds - except Ron's, of course - look occupied, and the soft white noise of heavy breathing is the only sound.

Harry fumbles for his glasses and pushes his nightmares firmly behind his Occlumency wall. He doesn't know why they keep coming. They're always the same - Harry is fighting in the Great Hall after the Horcrux inside him is killed, and he knows that Ron is going to die if he doesn't change things. Every night, it seems, dream-Harry tries something new, and every time it ends with Ron's mutilated body thudding to the ground.

He is going to be sick, he can feel it coming. He pushes off the bed with clammy hands and stumbles to the bathroom. He just barely gets the door shut behind him before he's heaving over the toilet. Almost nothing comes up, because it's been so long since he's eaten, but his body is still clenching, trying to purge itself of his memories.

The doorknob turns, and Dean steps inside, shutting the door quickly behind him. "Dean - go - sick - go," Harry manages to gasp out between heaves.

"I've got three younger sisters and a mother who works two jobs, Potter," Dean says calmly, flicking his wand to banish the mess. "If I can handle my sisters all having the stomach flu at the same time, I can handle this."

Harry looks blearily up at him from his position in front of the toilet. "I'm not sick like that, Dean," he says finally.

"I know." Dean sits down on the edge of the bathtub.

Harry sits back on his heels, stomach slowly unclenching, but he stays near the toilet in case the urge becomes overwhelming again. "I thought you weren't talking to me," he says, more for something to say than out of any actual curiosity.

"Yeah, well, you're in between, aren't you? Obviously you don't need protection - you defeated Voldemort, after all, but I thought you might be looking out for Hermione."

Harry blinks. "Protection from what?"

Dean looks at him like he's being daft on purpose. "Protection from the purebloods," he says, like it should be obvious. At Harry's continued blank look, he goes on, "Look, we're in the middle of a paradigm shift here, just like the French Revolution or the Civil Right movement in the States. Except that the people in power are the people who have the intention and the ability to fight it. And they will."

It's such a relief that Dean isn't trying to talk about Ron or ask why he's in here at two in the morning, that Harry finds himself almost willing to talk. "I know things aren't perfect for the Muggleborns, but I think you're making a bigger deal out of this than it is."

"No, I'm not," Dean insists, leaning forward. "I know you've probably been out of it since the Battle at Hogwarts, but the purebloods are scared - of public opinion, of change, of what you might do or say. Even the ones who didn't follow Voldemort during the War are scared, because their beliefs were twisted to align with Voldemort's, and they're afraid either you or the public in general will rise up against them and wipe them all out."

"Wipe them all out-" Harry gapes. "I've had quite enough of killing for a lifetime, thanks." His strange conversation with Astoria Greengrass and the other pureblooded students is starting to make a little more sense now.

Dean brushes his protestation away. "Exile them; strip them of their titles, whatever. To a pureblood family, there are a lot more humiliating things you could do to them than kill them. The point is, they're trying to prevent what they think is inevitable by handicapping the Muggleborns first. Not that we weren't handicapped already," he adds bitterly. He looks up at Harry suddenly, dark eyes intent. "You were raised like a Muggle, right? Knew nothing about the magical world until you got the Hogwarts acceptance letter, even though you probably manifested magic years earlier? Couldn't use magic during the holidays?"

Harry nods slowly, not following Dean's train of thought. "That's inherent prejudice against Muggleborns - a policy dating centuries back. But it's going to get worse. Neville's grandmother is supporting a law to require all Ministry employees to pass something they're calling the 'Magical culture' exam, to ensure all our government workers know of the glorious heritage of wizardkind." He sneers. "Full of oppressing every other magical race and killing Muggles, I'm sure."

Harry's never seen such vehemence on his roommate's face. "So that's why you're so angry with Neville, then? Because his grandmum is supporting a pro-pureblood bill?"

Dean scowls. "That's barely the first part of it - but yes. It seems like not a huge deal, though I would have to spend weeks studying for an exam that a pureblood wizard could pass with his eyes closed, but the point is the Wizengamot is trying to get things like that passed before you or any other influential person with pro-Muggleborn leanings can stop them."

"And you don't think anyone's going to fight for the Muggleborns, do you?"

Dean smiles sadly. "Not a chance. The Wizengamot is an ancestral seat, held by the eldest member of every Pureblood family. I heard Draco Malfoy claimed his rights last week. You've got a seat too, if you ever want to claim it."

Now it's all coming together for Harry. "But you could never have a seat."

Dean shakes his head. "Nope. I could go on to do brilliant things to help the wizarding world, invent a cure for dragon pox, whatever, and I still would never have a snowball's chance in hell of ever having any say in the way the wizarding world's government is run."

Harry lets his head bang against the tiled wall, fighting down the tiniest sliver of righteous indignation that is shooting up inside of him. The idiocy inherent in every cog of the Ministry of Magic's machinations never fails to astound him, and he can't help but wonder how effective he could be at creating more equality for the Muggleborns while reassuring the Purebloods that they would not be persecuted, either.

No, he swore he would never have anything to do with politics again. Knowing Sirius was left to rot in Azkaban because he didn't "deserve" a trial, and memories of his own farce of a trial the summer after his fourth year are more than enough to give him a lifelong disgust for the governing body of the wizarding world. He's ignored countless requests for interviews, blocked any owls from reaching him, and he'll be damned if he's going to get involved now - he needs his cloak of apathy to remain a functioning member of society.

Dean stands, and offers a hand to pull Harry up. "Anyway, that's all I wanted to say to you - you know, give you my side of the deal. You can make your own decisions. But whatever you decide, look out for Hermione - she could be in more danger than you know."

Harry nods wearily, mind already seeking disengagement again as he follows Dean out of the bathroom and back to his own bed. He's under the covers and tugging off his glasses before he realizes that Dean is still standing beside him, giving him an inscrutable look. "I really am sorry about Ron, Harry," he says softly. "He was a good bloke."

Something about the unexpectedness of the comment, after Harry has finally managed to get his mind on something other than Ron or death for a few minutes, shakes the foundation of his Occlumency shields so hard he can _feel_ it, and he can't prevent a little gasp of pain from escaping his lips. Turning over onto his stomach, he pulls his pillow tightly over his head, and mutters something like, "Yeah," into his mattress, hoping and praying that Dean will just leave him the hell alone.

When he emerges from his bed at daybreak, he hasn't gotten any more sleep, but at least he's got his involuntary shivering under control, and his Muggleborn roommate is gone.

* * *

He's downstairs in time to see the early morning sun shining through the east facing windows in Gryffindor Tower, not out of any urge to start his day off right but because he's tired of feeling trapped in his old dormitory.

Hermione is sitting in the Common Room, a fluffy gold blanket wrapped around her as she stares at the flames in one of the perpetually-lit fireplaces. The flickering shadows make her drawn face look even gaunter, and Harry feels ashamed the way he treated toward her last night, and a rising tide of protectiveness. If he is unhappy, then she is on the verge of a complete breakdown.

She just about jumps out of her skin when he sits down next to her, but then turns big, disinterested eyes on him. "I didn't mean to sound cruel last night," he says quietly, gauging her reaction. "I'm just tense from being back here, you know?"

She nods and turns away again, but something inside him is certain that if he doesn't press the issue, then his friendship with his best friend will never be able to be fixed. He has been carrying around the vague idea that at some point, years from now, they might be able to be happy again. It's a sliver of hope, a fading future, but he doesn't want to give it up entirely.

So he reaches out and gently pulls her chin back toward him. "Hermione, I know how bad it hurts, but I'm here too, okay?" She stares back at him unblinking for a few long moments before her eyes slowly start to fill with tears, and she nods again, more convincingly this time.

He's going to need to watch out for her this year. Dean's word brought clarity to the political turmoil that even he could perceive swirling around the British wizarding world. He can't lose his other best friend –he knows with certainty that he won't be able to keep going without her in his life. But she is vulnerable, and scared, and needs protecting, although she would curse him if she knew he thought that.

By rote, he pushes all his concerns firmly inside his Occlumency barrier, and slowly the overwhelming rush of emotions fades away, leaving him with the unshakeable intention of taking care of Hermione, protecting her, while she can't take care of herself. He is no hero, despite what the Daily Prophet says, but he can do this one small thing.

That decision made, he leans back beside Hermione, resting his arm on the edge of the sofa over her head. After a moment, she closes her eyes and leans against him, and he releases some of the tension he had been holding. Together, they stare into the flames, silent and still, until the rest of their House comes downstairs.

It's the most comfortable he's felt in months.

* * *

Thanks to the kind reviewers so far, I really appreciate your comments. Here are two specific responses to reviewers

To DukeBrymin, who asked if we'd be seeing any hope anytime soon: This is going to be a fairly long story. I have a lot that I want to accomplish in it, so while it may be several more chapters before you see any signs of the clouds breaking to show the sun (so to speak), as a percent of the whole story, hope will win by a long shot. I couldn't end a story on a depressing note if I wanted to (I tried that with my story Absolution; originally I was going to end the story where the line break is, but I couldn't do it). Angst/unhappiness is not how I view the world, so I can't write a story like that, but I also want to make the grief and slow recovery process realistic.

On that note, I'd also like to point out that Harry, Hermione, and Ginny are not exactly the poster children for healthy grieving - they're all trying to fight it in their own ways, so that's going to delay them while they try to fight the pain they feel at Ron's death, before they can really start grieving and recovering, so that topic is going to be dealt with too.

To BenPerez31, who said that he would have thought the grief would have brought Harry and Ginny closer together: I can definitely see how you could argue that, and I'm sure there are many realistic HP fanfics where that happens, but I've always seen Ginny as having a tendency to lash out when she's scared or angry, a kind of super-aggressive technique that was fine-tuned growing up with six boisterous older brothers, so Harry (right now!) just sees her actions and not her emotions, and views her as someone he really doesn't like much, and he hates what she's turned into. So no, right now they're just clashing, but that will eventually change.

Thanks again for the reviews and keep them coming!


	5. Chapter 4

_"To spare oneself from grief at all cost can be achieved only at the price of total detachment, which excludes the ability to experience happiness."_

_-Erich Fromm_

**Chapter Four**

Slughorn's class is a joke - Harry doesn't have Snape's old Potions textbook to help him anymore, but something about the mindless following of directions creates within him a vortex in which he only has to think about cutting roots, dicing spiders, and powdering ice balm leaves. It's pleasant to have his mind blank, though he is a little concerned that with his mind and emotions both blocked out, he might be turning into something of a robot.

He'll never have Hermione's skill with brewing, but with him handing her the prepared ingredients, the two of them together manage to produce the best Dreamless Sleep tonic in the class in record time.

Ginny, seated at the table next to Harry, spends almost the whole period half-heartedly skinning her garden snake, her long curtain of hair getting dangerously close to mixing in with the various volatile ingredients scattered on her table as she leans over. He would offer to switch places with her if he didn't know she would just snap at him for thinking she couldn't handle her own assignment.

Regardless, she chose the wrong partner if she wasn't going to pay attention, as she is seated next to Neville. He isn't the walking disaster he was with their former Potions professor breathing down his neck, but he'll never be anything better than mediocre, either.

True to his pattern and ten minutes shy of the bell, Neville fumbles his handful of red willow leaves and drops them all into the cauldron at once, instead of two every thirty seconds, and the resulting cloud of malodorous smoke gets them both extra homework from a disappointed Slughorn, who sighs but says he will clean up the stench.

As he, Hermione, and Ginny leave the boggy classroom, Neville catches up with them. He looks a little embarrassed at his blunder, but not the apologetic, quivering wreck he would have been a few years back. He hasn't said anything else about Ron since yesterday afternoon, either, and for that, Harry is grateful.

Yet he also can't help looking at Neville differently after everything Dean said last night. Harry is a half-blood raised Muggle, Hermione of course is muggleborn, and Ginny is pureblood, but about as far from being from an ancient House as it is possible to be. It's like there's an invisible chasm between them and the pureblooded Longbottom heir, an insurmountable difference that Harry never knew existed until yesterday.

Trying not to seem too obvious, Harry falls back a little and squeezes himself between Hermione and Neville, under pretext of wanting to ask his Muggleborn friend for the notes she'd taken earlier in class. He needs to be next to Hermione if he's going to be watching her back. She looks a little suspicious when he moves next to her, but the fact that she doesn't talk really goes a long way in preventing her from drawing attention to his unusual behavior.

While he walks, he contemplates the paradigm shift he's experienced. He learned long ago that the world of magic in general, and Hogwarts specifically, has more than its fair share of hypocrisies and faults, but somehow this is a major source of contention that he's missed. He's never before stopped to think about the blood status of any of his peers, but now he finds himself doing so. Half of his classmates he has no idea about. What are Parvati and Padma Patil, for instance? Or Cho Chang? It never seemed important before, but now the significance seems glaringly obvious.

Neville says something about it being a beautiful day for working outside in the gardens, and Harry absentmindedly agrees, though Ginny actually seems interested in some of the newly sprouted plants their round-faced friend is describing. Her normal snappish self is muted perceptibly around Neville – perhaps something about their shared experiences at Hogwarts last year keeps her from turning on him too much.

Harry is just thinking about how he is going to protect Hermione in the two classes he doesn't take with her - Arithmancy and Ancient Runes - when they turn a corner and are forced to an abrupt halt. Dozens of students are blocking the hallway in front of them, milling and murmuring, and he hears shouting and sees sparks flying up ahead. He tries to suppress his immediate bolt of alarm that everything is already moving to a head, and a pureblood is attacking a Muggleborn in public. Grabbing Hermione's hand, and ignoring her sharp intake of breath, Harry pulls her around to the edge of the mass, intending to get her out of the dungeons as quickly as possible, but he realizes too late that he has inadvertently walked right into the middle of a duel.

Draco Malfoy and a scraggly-looking boy Harry knows is also in Slytherin are circling each other, wands drawn. Malfoy's robe sleeve already has a long hole in it, presumably from a close call with a hex, and the other boy's face is scratched and bruised. It's actually a little disconcerting to see Malfoy shooting such a venomous expression at someone besides Harry or his friends.

"There's a new order now, Malfoy," the other Slytherin boy - Mott? Nott? - is crowing.

"You're fucking insane, Nott," Malfoy spits back. "I know where you sleep, you bloody two-faced _Mudblood." _There are a few gasps from the crowd, and Harry supposes Nott's blood status hadn't been well-known.

"It's only self-preservation that's held me back from kicking your bloody arse before. But Daddy's fallen out of favor now, hasn't he?" His voice is wild, enraged, and Harry something familiar in his eyes, something in the guarded, hunted expression that reminds him of his miserable years growing up at the Dursleys'. "The Chosen One's going to destroy all the Ancient Houses, Malfoy, and I'll gladly follow him, Gryffindor or no!"

Malfoy sneers. "Harry fucking Potter doesn't give a rat's arse about anything except sobbing over his pathetic Weasel friend's grave!"

The background noise of the two Slytherins shouting fades away abruptly into a low, dull throb, and suddenly Harry's wand is in his hand. In all his years, both those spent neglected and abused at his aunt's house and his years at Hogwarts, alternately revered for something he can't remember and reviled for speaking the truth, Harry thought he'd been angry. Plenty of times.

But he has never, in eighteen years on the planet, literally seen red before.

He doesn't remember moving, but one second he is trying to edge around the crowd with Hermione close behind, and the next he is facing Malfoy, wand out, crimson blurring the edges of his vision. What's even more unexpected is that Ginny is standing next to him, chin raised high in the middle of the cleared circle, and Malfoy suddenly can't decide whom he wants to point his wand at.

In the sudden silence, Ginny speaks, her face for once not furrowed in a scowl, but smooth, her voice almost pleasant-sounding. "If you _ever_ speak about my brother again, I swear to God right here and now, I will cut off your balls one by one and make you _eat_ them."

While Malfoy gapes soundlessly at Ginny, Harry glances over at Hermione to make sure she is safe. He hadn't meant to leave her alone with Neville, but then, if any pureblood can be trusted not to hurt her, it must be Neville, surely? He doesn't have much of a choice, now. He tilts his head toward the stairwell at the far end of the hall, and Neville seems to get the hint, tugging Hermione gently but firmly away from the fight.

He turns back to the standoff. "You will drop your wand now, Malfoy." Harry is surprised at how utterly calm he sounds. Inside, he struggles to keep his rage from bursting out of him in uncontrollable wandless magic. "You will keep your head down for the rest of this year, or I will let Ginny have her way with you. Somehow, I think she'd find the consequences worth the price."

Malfoy gulps, looking from him, to Ginny, to Nott, who is standing off to one side, his wand still pointed at Malfoy. Harry suddenly realizes how this must look to the gathered crowd, as if he has come swooping down to save this Slytherin boy he has never even spoken to.

Ginny opens her mouth, probably to let loose a Bat Bogey Hex - which at this range would be excruciatingly painful for the Malfoy heir, and cuts across her. "Drop your wand and-"

"What in Merlin's name is the meaning of this?" Slughorn is striding toward him in great undulating steps as fast as his bulk will carry him, wand already raised. "You four, put away your wands this _instant._ I shall count to three, and every single person still here will have detention with me every night for a month."

Harry glances at Ginny, who seems to share his shock that they are not being called out immediately for punishment, but figures that some of Slughorn's former favoritism for the two of them must be working in their favor. He pockets his wand and briskly heads away with the rest of the crowd, though Nott catches his eye, an odd, blazing look on his face, before he turns around and heads in the opposite direction.

Malfoy makes an abortive motion toward Harry, like he wants to walk over and say something, but Slughorn gives him a warning look, and he slinks away, too. There is something calculating in his expression as he turns away.

They meet up with Hermione and Neville at the base of the stairwell, Ginny immediately enlisting Hermione's help to brew a potion to turn Malfoy infertile, as a "warning measure" if he says another word about Ron. To his surprise, Hermione looks thoughtful before nodding.

Harry's, whose temper has faded as quickly as it came, finds himself remembering the terrified boy that couldn't kill Dumbledore, a boy who'd refused to identify him, Ron, and Hermione to his family, a crying boy in the girl's bathroom whom Harry had almost killed. Never a friend, but not exactly an enemy anymore, either. He'd thought they'd had something of a truce after keeping his father out of Azkaban and Draco out of a trial, but apparently that didn't extend to not talking about Harry behind his back.

He needs to deal with Malfoy once and for all before Ginny follows through with her threats and makes the Slytherin boy wish he were dead, whether he has to do that by making peace or forcing Malfoy to submit. Emboldened by having a clear plan of action, he speaks up firmly. "No." Both girls and Neville turn to stare at him. "Ginny, you will do nothing to Malfoy without speaking with me first." Ginny opens her mouth in outrage, but Harry plows on. "You're out of control, and I'm not going to let you spend your life in Azkaban because you have an issue with a stupid Slytherin who says the most vicious things he can think of."

"_I'm_ out of control?" she shrieks. "Says the bloke who walks around looking like he can kill someone with a look, who looks like death himself warmed over! You thought about killing Malfoy back there, I felt it!"

He lets her torrent wash over him, willing himself not to think too hard about her words. For the sake of the love he once felt for Ginny, he will not let her throw her future away, no matter what she says, even if she hates him for it. "Swear to me right now you won't do anything without consulting me first, Ginny, or I will owl your mother and tell her that you need to come home." Mrs. Weasley would listen to him, and Ginny knows it.

She shakes visibly in fury at this threat, but says, "I _swear_, you fucking prick."

He tries not to let himself feel hurt at the raw hatred in her voice, but he's still glad when his Occlumency shield springs up unbidden, and tucks away the pain. "Good," he nods, and again trying to be circumspect, walks between Hermione and Neville into the Great Hall for lunch, already dreading facing two more long, pointless classes this afternoon.

As they sit down to yet another huge meal that Harry knows he can't eat, someone taps his shoulder, and turns to see a short Hispanic girl wearing a Gryffindor badge, who looks to be about his age. He has no idea who she is - surely he's not _that_ unaware of the other students. "I've a message for you, Potter," she says softly as she places a folded bit of parchment in his hand. He glances down to read the brief note, and sighs. Another mysterious summons.

_Events are moving more quickly than one would have hoped, and the situation is more volatile and complex that we believe you imagine. Join us this evening at 20h near the Potions classroom. We promise to speak plainly. Bring Longbottom. _


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"_There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief."_

_-_ Joseph Addison

Lunch is brief and tasteless - after Harry sticks the note in his bag, Hermione casts something that sticks his arse to his seat, and stares pointedly at his plate until he reluctantly fills it up with unappetizing portions of beef, broccoli, and rice. Because she's cast it silently, he has no idea of the spell's identity, especially considering her much greater repertoire of obscure spells, and after an unsuccessful _Finite Incantatem_, he concentrates on getting it all down as quickly as possible.

He's been getting strange twinges in his arms and legs lately, anyway. Probably due to lack of eating much of anything over the past few months. Now _there_ was a cause of death not even Ludo Bagman would have bet on - the Chosen One dying of starvation. He wonders what that would be like. Would he start having hallucinations and fainting spells first and slowly slip away, or would he die a relatively quick death from heart failure?

He doesn't really want to die, he doesn't think, at least not until he is sure that Hermione will be okay without him. It's hard to think clearly these days, though.

After choking down most of his meal, Hermione seems to deem him finished, because she cancels the spell and rises. Not intending to let her out of his sight if he doesn't have to, Harry follows her to their Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, even though they're fifteen minutes early. She gives him an odd look, but doesn't protest, and heads for a seat in the back of the classroom.

Harry, however, comes to an abrupt halt two steps inside the classroom, staring in shock at the two large portraits hanging along the front wall of the room where the chalkboard used to be.

Severus Snape lurks in the corner of one of the paintings, looking as somber and yet as terrifying as he had ever been in life, seated in an elaborate green and silver armchair in the tradition of the Hogwarts headmasters, surrounded by an elaborately molded bronze frame. His lip curls when he sees him, but Harry's eyes have already moved on to the next portrait.

In a much simpler black frame, Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks sit side by side on a small sofa, smiling at Harry as he walks in. His heart misses a beat.

Without looking around, he reaches for Hermione's hand and tugs her along with him to the front of the classroom, where he stands and gazes up at his dead friends, moving and breathing as if he had never seen their bodies piled in the Great Hall. "I didn't know there were any paintings of you," is the first thing he can think of to say, stupidly.

Tonks beams, kneeling down to be at eye level with him. "We had one made of the three of us right after Teddy was born. Bit of a splurge, really, but it's a beautiful painting."

Harry grasps for something approaching normal to say. "Where is Teddy, then?" He looks at the edges of the painting, but can't find any sign of his young godson.

Remus mock-scowls at him. He looks better than Harry ever saw him in life - confident and relaxed, with his arm around Tonks's shoulders. "Why Harry, I should hope you of all people would know! You are the tyke's godfather, after all - even Sirius, irresponsible as _he_ was, had a pretty good idea where you were at all times when you were a baby."

Tonks hits him playfully on the shoulder. "Stop teasing the poor boy, Remus." She turns to Harry. "Subjects of paintings don't come alive until their originals have passed on. This painting hung over the mantle at our house for months last year, as still as any Muggle photograph." She shakes her finger at him. "Point being, I certainly don't want to see my son in this painting with me anytime within...oh, the next century. Do you hear me, Potter?"

Harry can't help but give a small smile at her teasing. It's just so overwhelming to get to speak with someone from his past again - even if they're just shadows of their former selves, their easy familiarity with him is surreal.

"There's a smile, then," Tonks says. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten how."

That stops him cold. "Do you-" He has to swallow. "Do you know what happened? After you two died, I mean?" Surely they haven't. How else could Tonks possibly expect him to be happy?

Tonks nods slowly, a grim expression overtaking her usually buoyant face. "McGonagall filled us in after she brought us to Hogwarts. Harry, I'm sure you've heard it ten million times, but I am so, so, incredibly sorry. Ron was-"

Harry cuts her off. "Don't, Tonks," he says brusquely, and Remus steps forward, opens his mouth. "Don't, either of you." His throat is filling up, and his eyes are strangely blurry as he backs away..

Hearing these platitudes about his dead best friend from other, equally dead friends is bizarre. He can't handle this, right now or ever. He mentally scrambles to push away his emotions behind his barriers, but his Occlumency shields weren't prepared for this unexpected attack, which has them straining with the effort of keeping his emotions in check.

He is already turning away, regretting opening his mouth at all, when Tonks addresses Hermione, sounding strangely hesitant. "I didn't realize...Hermione, please, tell him how important it is to talk about this -" But Hermione is shaking her head, too, dropping her eyes and silently following him back to the table she had claimed.

His head still spinning, Harry sits down heavily beside her, and keeps his eyes on the table to avoid seeing Tonks' and Remus's disappointed gazes. He can practically feel the hurt radiating off of them. After a few minutes of heavy silence, the room slowly fills up with Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, and the knot in Harry's throat loosens, and he can breathe without a stabbing feeling shooting down his chest.

Ginny, obviously still angry about the promise he had extracted from her, takes one look at the two of them and huffs, pulling Neville along with her to a table at the opposite end of the room. He shoots them an apologetic look from across the room, which Harry shrugs in response to. His relationship with Ginny is something he will have to deal with sometime, but not now.

Eventually, Lavender and Parvati join them at their table, offering nothing except a small "Hi," that Harry grunts in response to. He and Parvati have talked very little since their disastrous date at the Yule Ball in fourth year, mostly due to him avoiding the girl out of lingering guilt from ignoring her most of the evening. She looks different, though Harry is at a loss as to how, exactly.

Lavender's eyes are bloodshot, and now all he can think of when he sees the blonde girl is her prostrate on the floor, sobbing over Ron. He shudders. That class is a nightmare, dragging emotions out of people that are best left inside.

"Silence!" A silky, terrifying voice that Harry thought he would never hear again slices through every discussion instantaneously, and the students' eyes all snap to the front of the classroom, where Snape is now pacing back and forth in his frame. The artist has managed to capture the harsh gleam within Snape's eyes admirably well.

"This is a NEWTs-level Defense Against the Dark Arts. As my corporeal self has passed on, and the Headmistress has been unable to find a suitable living professor in time for the start of term, my...colleagues- " Snape's mouth compresses as if he wants to add something else, but he refrains. "My colleagues Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks and-" Beside Snape's portrait, Tonks lets out a groan. Snape ignores it. "-and I have agreed to teach the sixth and seventh year classes. We cannot demonstrate the spells we teach, but we can teach you the theory behind them and correct any mistakes you make. My standards, as you may have supposed, are extremely high, and I will be most displeased if _any_ of my students receives less than-" Snape's eyes suddenly narrow. "Miss Abbot, was I not just _perfectly _clear in my expectations for this class?"

The soft-spoken Hufflepuff seated in front of Harry almost falls out of her chair. "You were, sir," she squeaks, slipping her quill and parchment guiltily back into her book bag. On it, Harry can make out what look like doodles involving names and hearts.

Snape's black eyes sweep around the classroom, resting for perhaps a moment longer than necessary on Harry's table. After a long, tense moment, Snape finally says, "Consider this a warning for everyone. If anyone puts so much as a single toe out of line, they can bid their hopes of achieving a NEWT in this class goodbye." The silence that greets this pronouncement is deafening.

"Sweet Merlin, Severus, you could write the book on mood killing." A shocked silence, then everyone's eyes sweep to the other portrait, where Tonks is grinning cheekily at Snape. "Defense Against the Dark Arts is exciting, too!" She turns to face the rest of the class, legs crossed daintily as she sits on the arm of the sofa. "Hi, everyone! For those who don't know me, I'm Auror Tonks - I died in action at the Battle of Hogwarts, as did my handsome husband here, whom I believe most of you have met before." Remus stands and waves good-naturedly at the rapt classroom. Harry can't help but twitch at how casually they speak of their own deaths.

Tonks continues, "Between the three of us, I think we can teach you all the important aspects of becoming highly skilled in fighting the Dark Arts. Might still not be good as a living professor..." Tonks shrugs genially."But we're what you've got, so let's work hard, alright?" She winks at Hannah. "That's my motto."

And with that bizarre introduction, the rest of the class is spent taking notes from Snape's lecture, which he seems to have memorized, and listening to occasional interjections from Tonks or gentle clarifications from Remus. All in all, it's not a terrible class, though Harry winces every time he glances at Remus and Tonks' portrait.

Surprisingly enough, he's fine looking at Snape. The brief moment he shared with Snape while the former Potions master lay dying is something he will never forget, and viewing Snape's memories after his death gave him a level of empathy for the man he thought he would never have. He will leave the portrait in peace, out of respect for the man who had loved his mother until the day he died.

He wonders if portrait-Snape knows about sharing his memories with Harry. But surely if that had been his plan, as it seemed all along, Snape would assume he had? Like so many other things, it doesn't really matter, he finally concludes.

When class ends, he impatiently waits for Hermione to gather her things so he can leave before Remus or Tonks can try to speak to him again. He can almost feel Tonks watching him, waiting for the class to clear out. He reaches out to screw Hermione's inkwell shut when she can't grasp it tightly enough with her shaking hands - Hermione's hands are always trembling; he hardly even notices it anymore - and manages to drag her out of the classroom thankfully ahead of a few stragglers.

A few feet outside the door, Neville and Seamus are waiting for him. He nods at the two of them, and they walk with him back to Gryffindor Tower. He doesn't think he's said two words to his Irish dorm mate since the beginning of term, or much ever, really. But Ron liked Seamus, so Harry supposes he can be polite. Civility is getting more difficult every day, it seems.

"It's a bit strange, getting taught by a couple of portraits," Neville comments after a few minutes of silence. Harry shrugs. No stranger than getting taught by a ghost or Hagrid, in his reckoning. They keep walking.

Neville tries again. "Do you think we'll be good enough to pass the practical portion, without a living person to teach us?" Harry has to think about this. His theory is a little rusty, but he knows without a bit of arrogance that he'll pass the practical portion of the NEWT with flying colors. The other students though, whose spell work wasn't honed by the weighty knowledge that they were the only person who could possibly defeat Voldemort? Perhaps they will struggle, he doesn't know.

"D'yeh think you could do the D.A. again, Harry?" Seamus's voice is eager, hopeful. He was one of those whom Harry was continually surprised that showed up at the group lessons week after week, once he'd decided Harry wasn't going to be the next Dark Lord, at least. He was a mediocre student in all his other classes, but he'd been a quick and spirited pupil in the D.A.

"Er, no, I don't think so." He has to work to conceal the surprise in his voice. Who on earth would want to learn from a "hero" who hadn't even managed to keep his best friend alive? You'd think that would be pretty irrefutable evidence that his DADA skills aren't exactly anything to envy. He opens his mouth to suggest some dribble like getting help from one of their other professors instead, when at his side, Hermione screams.

The shock of hearing any noise out of her after so long is so stunning that her knees are buckling and she is almost down before Harry manages to leap forward and catch her before her head hits the stone floor. There are students milling about everywhere, lost in their own discussions with their friends, and no one is paying attention to three people crowded around a fallen fourth student.

Hermione's whole body is seizing, her eyes rolled back in her head as her back arches off the ground. "Get Pomfrey," Harry snaps at his frozen friends. "_Run_." Seamus hesitates, looking uncertain, but Neville turns on the spot and sprints away, bellowing at clusters of students to get out of his way as he makes his way to the stairwell. The Hospital Wing, two floors up, seems impossibly far away.

Blood begins to run out of Hermione's eyes and nose, and Harry swears he can feel his own heart stop beating as he stares at her convulsing form. For some reason, his brain doesn't seem to be working right.

He should be able to think of something to fix Hermione, but he knows nothing about Healing, and he can't pull the trick with the bezoar like when Ron was poisoned. He is utterly useless. All he can do is stroke Hermione's hair and beg her wordlessly to be hold on.

This is it. He's all out of tricks, all out of luck, and his best friend is going to die on the floor of a Hogwarts hallway because he couldn't protect her, and he doesn't know enough to save her.

"Get Snape's portrait," he tells Seamus in a sudden burst of frantic inspiration, remembering how Dumbledore had been insistent on finding Snape, not Madame Pomfrey, when he was so weak after going to the cave.

He doesn't know what Seamus sees in his eyes, but something in them finally seems to get through, and Seamus clambers off in the opposite direction, back toward their classroom.

_Please,_ he begs, though he doesn't know to whom. _Please _hurry.

In his arms, Hermione shudders and lies still.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear."_

_- C.S. Lewis_

Harry's pounding heart pumps fear down through his arteries along with blood, and he barely notices Seamus's arrival, breathing heavily as he sprints down the long hall with Snape's heavy portrait held out in front of him. The bell has finally rung and the hallway is mostly clear, except for a few students who hang back in the shadows to watch, in horror and interest, at the drama unfolding before them.

Blood trickles steadily out of Hermione's nose and mouth, which Harry realizes somewhere in the back of his mind that means her heart is still beating, but he has been unable to take her pulse because he kept getting her faint heartbeats mixed in with his own frantic rhythm.

Finally, Snape's portrait is set down in front of them, the professor's eyes dark and furious.

"Symptoms, Potter," he snaps. "Tell me everything that she's done."

Harry's mind races. "She screamed, like she was in horrible pain, and her eyes rolled back in her head and her knees buckled. I caught her. Then she started having a seizure, and blood came out of her nose and mouth."

"Did her head hit the ground?"

Harry shakes his head. "No, I caught her before that. Professor, what do you think-"

"Out of my way, _now_!" Harry has never heard Madame Pomfrey sound like that, but there is something domineering and slightly frightening in her voice, and the remaining students hanging back scatter like birds in her wake.

Neville scrambles along behind her, and kneels down beside Pomfrey as she takes Hermione's pulse.

She doesn't miss a beat at seeing Snape's portrait. "Severus, is it poison? Neville described what happened - I know this is not natural in origin."

Snape, who has been pacing back and forth in his frame, nods sharply. "I can think of no poison exhibiting these symptoms that would be made worse by putting Granger in stasis. Without it, she may well bleed to death in front of us."

Pomfrey nods and pulls out her wand. "Wait," Snape hisses. "It should be Potter's choice."

Something unidentifiable passes across Madame Pomfrey's face, but she nods. She reaches forward and takes Harry's hand. He'd been sitting staring at Hermione's limp form in despair, and flinches at the contact.

"Potter," she says gently. "Miss Granger is in mortal danger right now. We have two choices. We can attempt to treat her now, in which case we have about a quarter hour to find the cure to this before she bleeds to death. Or we can put her in stasis, which is not unlike putting her into hibernation, until we can find the antidote. Professor Snape does not believe she will be adversely affected by magic, but it is possible. He is extremely skilled, but not all-knowing of every poison in existence. The choice is yours."

_Trust Snape, or race the clock._ He searches Pomfrey's, then Snape's eyes, for a sign of what he should do. They both stare back at him, eyes unreadable. Before him, Hermione lies dying, occasionally twitching and moaning in pain. If she doesn't make it, he's not sure he will live out the week.

He follows his instinct. "I trust Professor Snape with my life, so I'll trust him with Hermione's."

Everyone except Snape blinks, but Madame Pomfrey quickly steps into action, setting Hermione's head gently on the floor, and placing her arms straight at her sides. She takes a deep breath and raises her wand. "_Cubitus Stasis_." A soft film, almost like plastic wrap, envelops Hermione's body and fades away, leaving her still form with nothing but a faint glow to indicate that she is not truly dead.

The school nurse whispers a spell that generates a pulsing green orb in midair, and Pomfrey lets out a long sigh. "The spell succeeded," she says quietly. "Miss Granger will remain in stasis until we can test her blood and find out the cause of her condition."

Neville stands up and walks over to help Harry to his feet. "She's going to be okay, mate," he says with a shaky smile. "They'll keep her safe until they know how to cure her."

Harry's legs feel unstable, but he manages to fall in step behind Madame Pomfrey as she levitates Hermione in front of her and toward the stairwell. Seamus heads in the opposite direction, lugging Snape's portrait back to the classroom. Harry stops him to say, softly but sincerely, "Thank you, Professor."

Snape regards him with emotionless eyes before inclining his head almost imperceptibly. "I must be present to instruct my classes this week, Potter, but I will discuss with Slughorn and some of the Potions Masters' portraits this weekend to attempt to discover what has afflicted Miss Granger."

Harry nods. "Thank you again," he whispers, before jogging back toward Madame Pomfrey.

* * *

Madame Pomfrey rolls her eyes when Harry states his intention to stay with Hermione, opens her mouth, no doubt to remind him of the same thing she told him when Hermione was Petrified, and closes it again. She directs him to a sofa in the waiting room, while she goes to clean off Hermione's face and get her set up in a bed.

He has only been waiting a minute or so before the hospital wing's doors open again, and Ginny barrels through the door, looking terrified and furious at the same time. She stops just a few feet away from him. "I just heard, Harry, how is she?" She chokes out, "Did she- is she okay?"

Harry nods, and then shakes his head. "She's alive - in stasis. They don't know what caused it yet, though, and they can't wake her up until they do."

"Oh god - oh god...if she had-" Ginny is taking short, panicked breaths through her nose, and Harry reaches out to her before he thinks about it, and she freezes, staring at him for a heartbeat before pulling away. "Don't touch me," she snarls. "I don't need a hero to come swooping in to save me."

"Thank god, because I'm tired of saving you," he snaps without thinking.

Her face slowly reddens in anger as they glare at each other, neither one saying a word. Harry is so tired, and so tense, and he doesn't know how to fix this thing between Ginny and him, and they don't need to be fighting when Hermione's life is on the line, and then Madame Pomfrey opens the door to the overnight care room. Both Ginny and Harry's eyes snap to her, and she gives them a penetrating look. "Do not come see Miss Granger unless you will both be completely _civil _and _quiet_."

Harry nods impatiently, and Ginny must have given a similar sign of assent, because the nurse grudgingly steps aside to allow them through.

Hermione is still, utterly motionless, her chest rising with a tiny breath every minute or so. Harry and Ginny stand side by side for several minutes, silent. Madame Pomfrey gives them both sharp looks before sighing and leaving them alone with Hermione.

"She came so close to dying," Harry's voice sounds like it's far away. He can't think straight...everything happened so fast. "Right in front of me. One minute she was...not fine, but normal, and then she was screaming, dying right there in front of me."

"I'm going to find out who did this to her," Ginny says abruptly, her fists in balls. He doesn't know if she has been listening. "I'll hunt them down and k-kill them." She hugs herself tightly. "I couldn't do it for Ron, but I know I can do it now."

Harry freezes in thought. What if the little Pureblood gang with Zabini and Greengrass and all the others had something to do with this? They had to know he'd be out for their blood if he found out they did it.

_Don't jump to conclusions, Harry._ Hermione's voice, from back when she spoke, pops into his head. He can picture her frowning at him, shaking her head. _Think of all the possibilities first!_

Right, well, someone set out to murder Hermione Granger, Muggleborn and friend of the Chosen One. There are so many reasons someone might want to kill her, he doesn't know where to begin. Had he pissed off Zabini and the others so much that they would punish him for not talking to them? Does that even make sense? He isn't sure anymore. He's so tired, combined with the exhausting effort of keeping his fear for Hermione and rage against whoever did this to her from overflowing, making it hard to sit up straight in his chair.

"...something, Harry!" Ginny is leaning forward, cheeks flushed an angry red, waiting for him to respond. "You thought of something!" she repeats when he turns to look at her in confusion. "Tell me what it is - do you know who did this?"

He thinks briefly about explaining the whole complicated scenario, the mix of what Dean told him and Zabini and Greengrass, pieced together with his own flawed understanding of the wizarding world. And then he remembers the look in her eye when she stared down Draco Malfoy. It's not much of a mental leap to see Ginny storming out after hearing about the Pureblood gang, and attacking first, asking questions later- or never.

He needs to find Neville - the requested meeting time is only a few hours away, and he needs to speak with Greengrass and Zabini, without having to control his own temper _and _Ginny's. Neville is calm and rational; he's Pureblooded, and hopefully he can get a little closer to making Harry understand the tangled mess that makes up the politics of the wizarding world.

He rises, wobbling a little on his feet before he regains his balance. "I'll tell you later." Or never. "Stay with her as much as you can, and do some research in your spare time to help Madame Pomfrey and Snape figure out what caused this." If he can get her to focus all her attention on curing Hermione, he won't have to worry so much about her attacking the next person who looks at her crossways.

She jumps to her feet, shrieking, "Harry Potter, I am not your servant to order around!"

He overrides her in a level tone - not because he doesn't want to shout right back, but because he's too tired to raise his voice. "You'll do it because it's the best thing you can do for Hermione right now. And I'm going to go try to figure out who did this, NOT - " he cuts off her renewed protests. "Not the other way around."

Angry tears fill her eyes as she sits back down slowly. "You used to let me help you. You'd never have told me what to do like you do now."

Something inside him jars a little as he sees his ex-girlfriend reduced to tears. _Aren't you the big man now, Potter?_ a voice inside his head jeers. _You're so brave and wonderful, you can make girls cry. _

Then he looks at Hermione, her body still and silent, looking almost as pale as death, and so fragile that she looks like one more spell would kill her.

"I'm not doing this to hurt you, Ginny," he says finally, walking out of the room. "It's for the best."

* * *

Harry finds Neville sitting with Seamus in the Common Room, discussing something that makes Neville blush and Seamus snicker at his discomfort. " - And the cutest little, round-"

"Seamus!" Neville hisses when he sees Harry walk up. Even his ears are red. "How's Hermione?"

Harry shrugs, dropping into the plush sofa across from his two dorm mates. "Clean and in bed. Snape said he'd talk to Slughorn this weekend and try to figure out what caused..._that._" He grimaces, thinking of Hermione seizing again.

He closes his eyes and fights the urge to fall asleep right here, in the middle of the afternoon. Then Hermione's face, dripping blood, fills his vision, and he snaps his eyes open again. "Seamus, I know this is rude, but do you mind giving me a minute with Neville?"

The Irish boy is surprisingly understanding. "Sure, Harry," he says, gesturing to a puffy seat in the far corner where a girl with long black hair is reading a book. "Gives me an excuse to chat up the new Gryffindor girl."

Harry forces a smile and waits until Seamus is out of range before turning to Neville. "I talked with a few Pureblooded students the other day," he says without preamble. Neville's eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn't interrupt.

"They wanted to know what I was going to 'do' with them, and they were practically talking in riddles. I got annoyed and walked out, but they asked me to meet again today, right after dinner, and to bring you with me." He goes on to explain what happened in their strange little meeting.

"That all doesn't entirely surprise me," Neville remarks when Harry finishes. "My grandmum and my uncles have talked about how much turmoil there is right now in the government. I suppose they think you'll claim your Seat soon, and suddenly have real, government power as well as the power of public opinion."

Hearing about Neville's grandmum reminds him of his late-night conversation with Dean. "Neville, is your grandmum really pushing for a sort of wizard culture exam for Ministry employees?" He decides not to mention that it was Dean who told him that.

Neville looks confused for a moment. "Yeah, but what - oh!" His eyes light up in comprehension. "She thought it up because tons of departments at the Ministry can reject requests for advancement due to 'more time required for sufficient understanding of magical culture.' It's meant to give an edge to older, Pureblooded families with the money to bribe their way to the more influential positions. But if everyone there has already passed a wizarding culture exam just to be an employee, and then they have no legal loophole to hold Muggleborns back." He shrugs. "At least, that's the idea. You thought it was a pro-Pureblood initiative, didn't you?"

Harry can't help feel a little embarrassed for doubting his friend's intentions, but Neville waves away his apology. "No harm done; I can see how it might look bad to an outsider. Now if I could just get Dean to sit down and listen to me for five minutes, we might be able to accomplish something, and get back to all being friends again."

Seamus saunters back over then, looking pleased with himself. "Guess who's got himself a date this Saturday night, my boys?"

Neville snorts, leaning back and stretching his legs out. "A bloody great date that'll be, at Hogwarts. 'Here's the room where we've eaten every single meal for seven years... here's the Owlery that smells overwhelmingly of owl shite, isn't this _romantic?'_"

Seamus cuffs him, laughing. "Just because you haven't got the bullocks to ask out Hannah, there's no reason to be _rude_ about it! House of the brave my arse!"

Harry rises suddenly. The normalcy of his friends goofing around is physically painful. Less than two years ago, Ron would have been sitting beside him in the Common Room, poking good-natured fun at both Seamus and Neville as they did something so completely mundane as talk about birds. How can his dorm mates be okay that Ron is _dead_? How can _anyone _be okay with it?

Neville sees something in his eyes that wipes the smile off his face, and somewhere in a part of his mind that he thought he'd long since killed off, feels guilty for always ruining happy situations. "I'm going to lie down," he says to the air over Seamus and Neville's heads, and heads up the boys' stairwell.

"Harry." He turns to see Neville standing at the base, staring up at him with calm eyes, and Harry remembers that Neville has fought beside him countless times, stood up to his parent's attacker and Voldemort himself, and has to live every day with the knowledge that his parents will never, ever remember their son. How does he deal with it without falling apart?

"I'll be there with you tonight. Just come get me when it's time."

Harry nods and continues up the stairwell, charming his bed curtains shut and falling into an uneasy, restless sleep within seconds. His dreams are the usual nightmares with Ron, except Ginny and Hermione are in them, too, being tortured and dying over and over again alongside his first friend.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_"The cure for grief is motion."_

_- Elbert Hubbard_

Later that evening, Harry and Neville find themselves standing outside the classroom that Zabini had dragged Harry into the other day. He halfheartedly tried eavesdropping at first, but all they could make out was the muted buzz of many people speaking at once. It's hard to shake the feeling that they might be walking deep into enemy territory almost completely unarmed, but seeing Hermione's slack face in his mind strengthens Harry resolve.

The risk is worth the possibility of finding out who poisoned his Muggleborn friend, and how.

Finally, Harry raises his chin, squares his shoulders, and turns to Neville. "Wands up, let's go, " he says, sounding much more confident than he feels. Neville nods once and follows him inside.

Everyone present when the door opens looks up. The room is dimly lit by a few lamps, and Harry can just make out Zabini and Tracey Davis, seated on two desks close to the door, abruptly cut off their conversation when they see him, and some of the other students murmur to each other before falling silent.

Astoria Greengrass pushes herself off the opposite wall and walks over to Harry and Neville with confidence that seems ingrained, her cool gaze scanning the two of them. "Haven't we gotten that out of the way, Potter? No one here is going to attack you." She spreads her hands in mock-openness. She eyes Neville for a moment, but says nothing of his presence.

"I don't trust you," Harry responds flatly. The question, of course, is would they attack _Hermione._

She snorts. "Ah, well, the feeling's mutual, trust me. However..." she pulls out her wand, and Harry hears Neville's quick intake of breath behind him. The Slytherin girl rolls her eyes, and presses her wand against her chest. "I hereby swear on my life and my magic that I will do nothing to cause Harry Potter or Neville Longbottom any harm this night, and I will do all in my power to prevent anyone else in this room from doing him harm. This I do swear."

Her eyes glow with a golden light for a split second, and then she returns to normal. More shifts and mutters in the shadowed cluster of students behind her. "Good enough, Potter?"

_Not by a long shot_, he thinks, but figures it's in his best interest to keep her talking for a while. He's here for answers, not for storming out in a huff. "It'll do," he says. "Though you could try to keep me here until after midnight and attack me then."

She smirks. "What a surprise, you might have some brains after all, Potter. Nevertheless, I will not do that." She sits down across from him, straddling the chair like a boy. "Sit," she gestures to a few unoccupied chairs in the center of the room. "Please," she adds, grimacing, when they don't move.

Harry turns to Neville, who looks at him levelly, then slowly lowers himself into a seat. Only then does Harry slide his wand back into his pocket, though he keeps it within easy reach. He sits cautiously, eyes not leaving Greengrass. Zabini emerges to slide effortlessly into the seat next to the Slytherin girl, and everyone else shifts subtly toward Harry and Neville.

After a tense silence, Astoria speaks again. "You're wondering why we asked you to bring Longbottom." He notices her use of the plural, as though she isn't the brains and driving force behind the whole group. "Normally, I would wait for you to ask this question, but we promised not to play... 'word games' with you." Her lip curls delicately at the term, but she continues, almost without pause. "The primary reason is that he is a Pureblood, yet also your friend." Another pause, and he can almost see her weighing her words. "Of course, Weas-"

Harry shoots up, wand pointed at her throat in the space of a heartbeat. "Don't," he says, suddenly breathing harshly. "Don't say his name." He has had enough almost-heart attacks for one day, thank you.

She meets his gaze calmly, like she doesn't realize she's about a second away from being cursed. Harry has made no promises, after all. "I will not say it," she says finally, and Harry takes that for as close to an apology as he'll ever get from a Slytherin, and sits back down slowly.

She clears her throat and continues. "Of course, you have other Pureblooded friends, but Longbottom is the only one with a pedigree and a Seat, and a...traditional upbringing." She was going to say something else, Harry knows, but he supposes the important thing is that she chose not to. "But mostly, we brought him so that he can prove that what we're striving to protect here, why we're asking you for help is not because we're trying to... I don't know, protect Slytherins or protect Dark Arts practitioners, but protect _us_. Pureblooded values." Her voice is impassioned, but Harry is shite at reading faces and has no idea how sincere she is.

"Ask Longbottom," Blaise says suddenly, leaning forward as if he can't stop himself. "We have a _culture_, Potter. We have traditions and values, and they have nothing to do with the Dark Arts. We celebrate the solstices and Samhain together, and practice magic much deeper, much older than what Hogwarts teaches. And if you don't stop it, it's all going to be taken from us."

Harry looks to Neville for confirmation, and his friend looks troubled, but nods. "I don't have much to do with it, but they aren't lying. All the old families are linked, and that was enough for me to glimpse bits and pieces of it, growing up," he says quietly.

How is this the first time Harry has ever heard anything like this? Does Hermione even know it? It's not important though, and Harry glares at the two Slytherins sitting across from him for getting him so far off-track. "I don't give a rat's arse if you dance naked around bonfires, so long as it isn't evil, and I don't see why anyone else would." He feels that familiar twinge of interest and motivation to _fix_ problems, though, which has always seemed to lead to pain and close calls with death, and tries to suppress it.

Astoria rolls her eyes, shaking her head. "Because we're _scapegoats_, Potter. And if we don't embrace this...bastardized version of our heritage and magic itself that's taught at Hogwarts and the Ministry and all the _reputable_ places to work because of the influx of Muggleborns, then we must be evil." She leans forward to stare at him intently. "Tell me, Potter, why is it that we have a Muggle Studies class for purebloods, but no Wizard Studies class for half-bloods and Muggleborns? Riddle me this."

It seems obvious, but then perhaps not. Surely the idea is that simply _being_ at Hogwarts is like a non-stop class in wizard culture? But if that was true, how could there be so much that he still doesn't know, after almost seven years?

She presses her advantage. "Is it because Hogwarts and the Ministry and the Daily Prophet are supposed to be the alpha and omega of what it means to have magic running through your veins? I promise you, the magic, the meaning, taught here are only a tiny, tiny part of the whole. Pureblood tradition reflects that fact, and to take away our culture would be to take away centuries of knowledge and traditions from this world, forever, simply because Muggleborns and their sympathizers are too frightened to take the time to understand it." Behind her, the other students are nodding fervently.

She searches his eyes for a long moment. "I'll be completely honest," she says quietly. "I don't speak for everyone here, but I'd rather Muggleborns weren't allowed to be part of our world. Nevertheless," she says firmly, overriding Harry's attempts to interrupt. "I am willing to make compromises, and I would accept them and be content to coexist as long as I was sure everything _I_ value was safeguarded."

Rubbing his eyes, Harry tries to get his thoughts together. He needs a full nights' sleep, but that seems unlikely to happen any time soon. He briefly considers just walking out and leaving them to it, but his damnable curiosity already has him considering her words.

Ever since he has come to Hogwarts, he has believed that complete acceptance of Muggleborns was simply the right thing to do. Besides, Voldemort persecuted Muggles and Muggleborns alike with single-minded hatred, and Harry has found that most things that Voldemort didn't like, little things like trust and faith and _love, _are generally good things that he should try to seek out. Is that not true?

Or is it simply a reflection of the fact that the world is much less blank-and-white than he believed even a couple of years ago?

While he is still trying to sort out his thoughts, Terry Boot steps forward. He's the one student in the room whom Harry actually knows well, a bright, easygoing Ravenclaw who attended every single DA session fifth year and has never been anything but polite to him. "Harry," he says quietly, taking a seat next to him, "I would never expect someone to make a decision this big without thinking everything through. Hell, I wouldn't want them to. But you _know _me. I was in the D.A. I helped you with Malfoy sixth year." Inexplicably, he shoots Astoria a guilty look before he turns back to Harry. "I fought at the Battle of Hogwarts last summer. I'm not a crazy anti-Muggleborn bigot, or the next Dark Lord in training, or anything else like that." He takes a deep breath. "But the Ministry propaganda machine is going to make us your enemies if you don't put a stop to it."

Harry just stares at him, unsure what he is supposed to say. It is too much to think about, too much to process, especially as he's never had a head for politics.

Astoria slips back into the silence effortlessly. "The point is, Potter, you are our last hope. No one else will listen to us." Without warning, she moves out from behind her chair to kneel gracefully in front of Harry, head bowed. "Shall I beg? Or, if it is necessary for your support, I will agree to almost anything you ask for in return." She looks up at him through her short fringe of golden hair, and the look she gives him conveys exactly what she means by _anything_. Suddenly, he is very aware that he is male and she is female. Overriding that thought, however, is disgust at the thought of forcing himself on a young woman desperate enough to offer her own body as payment, and he pushes the idea away immediately.

For a stupid second, he wishes he could ask Hermione what she thinks of the whole situation. Of course, in his head, Hermione is his cheerful, sometimes frazzled best friend from before the War, bursting with opinions and passion and an insatiable curiosity. Not the silent, frail girl lying in the Hospital Wing.

But thinking of Hermione gives him an idea, one that might solve two of his problems at once. He thought the war was over, but another one has begun without his knowledge or consent. With Hermione at the crux of it.

Looking around at the room, he makes eye contact with every person one by one, and finally Astoria.

"I'll make a deal with you - all of you. Hermione Granger was poisoned today, and she's in stasis until Snape and Pomfrey can figure out what's wrong with her." Astoria's eyes widen a fraction. "She almost _died_ in the hallway in my arms. Swear to me now, one by one, that each of you had nothing to do with it, and you will help me find out who did it, and in return I will do everything I can to protect your… culture."

After a pause, Astoria nods. "That's fair," she says, a note of surprise in her voice. "As I said, none of us have any desire to hurt Muggleborns, your friend Granger least of all. No one here would do such a thing, but we will swear individually." Again, she speaks for the group, but no one seems remotely inclined to protest. Harry can't help but admire her skill a little. He was certainly never so confidently commanding when he led the D.A.

Without further ceremony, the other occupants of the room step forward one by one, and swear on their magic and their life that they were not involved in any way in poisoning Hermione Granger, nor do they have any idea who did it. Harry listens carefully to the exact words of the oath in case there are any loopholes meant to conceal the truth, but he can't find any.

He catches Neville's eye, and he seems to understand Harry's unspoken question, because he shakes his head. "It all seems as they say," he whispers in Harry's ear.

Finally, Astoria stands before him, holding out her hand. "The Unbreakable Vow, Potter?" she asks, a quiet challenge in her eyes, daring him to keep his promise.

The phrase "making a deal with the Devil" pops up in his mind unbidden, but that's not a fair comparison. Making a deal with the devil would have been discussing terms with Voldemort, or Bellatrix Lestrange. Nevertheless, this is certainly not a position he would have thought to ever find himself in as recently as an hour ago. What would his parents have thought? Or Ron?

His friend would have told him to do whatever it took to protect Hermione, that much he knows for an unshakable fact.

Finally, he swallows and nods, and rises to clasp her hand, small and firm in his. Zabini steps forward, a crackle of magic flaring around them as he Binds their words to them. "Do you, Astoria Greengrass, swear to do all in your power to find out who poisoned Hermione Granger, and vouch for everyone here to do the same, and to inform Harry Potter the person or persons behind the attack?"

Astoria nods firmly. "I do so swear." A ring of flames encircles her wrist, and Blaise turns to Harry.

"Do you, Harry Potter, swear that once Astoria Greengrass has successfully discovered Hermione Granger's attacker, and informed you of his or her identity or identities, you will do all in your power to protect the Pureblood culture from further encroachment or restrictive legislation or libel or slander?"

"I do so swear," he says, mimicking Greengrass's wording. His own ring of flames reach out across their joined hands and mix together, creating a continuous loop of flames that fades into their wrists, leaving Harry feeling like something invisible but heavy has been branded into his skin.

Astoria steps backward, releasing Harry's hand and looking at him in wonder. "It is done," she says, seemingly half to herself. Then she smiles, a truly pretty smile, for the first time since Harry has seen her. Even Zabini drops his sneer to give Harry a look absent of his usual disdain and inclines his head. Behind them, all the other students, who have been standing in a group since swearing their own oaths, start talking amongst themselves, a note of excitement and incredulity on many faces.

"Harry," Neville says quietly, rising to stand beside Harry, and looking around in wonder at the flurry of activity before them. "What did you just _do_?"

It doesn't matter. Whatever Neville thinks, or anyone else in the universe thinks, doesn't matter at all, because already, Greengrass is discussing Slytherins possibly accountable for Hermione's poisoning with several boys in her year, and he now has almost two dozen students who are motivated to help him, and whom he is almost certain will not turn on him.

Has he made the right decision? He's fairly sure, but nothing life is certain. He had a glimpse of that reality when Albus Dumbledore was murdered, and was certain when he saw Ron torn apart in front of him.

The most important question then, is will this alliance help Hermione? And the answer, his heart and mind scream together, is a resounding _yes._

* * *

_Author's Note: I know the idea of a true Pureblooded culture never really came up in canon, but with ancestral houses and intertwined family trees that have existed since at least the Middle Ages, I don't think it's that much of a stretch to imagine that Purebloods would have a distinct culture, something roughly resembling our idea of pagan traditions. Of course, this story is about Harry, Ginny, and Hermione, not traditional purebloods, so I won't spend a lot of time on the subject, but I'm going to be going along with the idea that it exists, and it's extremely important to many Purebloods._

_As always, thank you kindly for all reviews! My free time is extremely limited, so individually responding to reviews would cut into my story-writing time significantly, but I promise you every single one is read and appreciated. Special thanks go to DukeBrymin, who always gives thought-provoking feedback (the last chapter has been edited to remove my atrocious spelling error and a couple other tweaks). Thank you all again._


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_"Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death."_

_-Coco Chanel_

Unable to stay in the silent dorm room any longer with only his fears for Hermione to keep him company, Harry heads downstairs before the sun, in time to see a slim girl with long red hair slipping out of the portrait hole at the other end of the Common Room. He hesitates. Talking to Ginny always seems to make him lose control of his tightly-reined in emotions, which is infuriating, but since she's almost certainly heading down to the Hospital Wing, he'll have to see her eventually anyway.

She's gone by the time he decides to follow, but catching up with her in the deserted pre-dawn hallways is simple, and he falls into step beside her, neither saying anything for a few minutes.

Finally, he turns to look at her, takes in her unbrushed hair and the overlarge men's button-up shirt she's wearing that he would wager once belonged to Ron. She is staring straight ahead, her eyes hard and determined.

"How is she?" he asks, trying to sound casual.

She spins to face him, making him halt mid-stride. "Oh, _now_ you care how she is, do you? I stayed with her all bloody evening until Pomfrey kicked me out, but the _Chosen _Onegets to do as he pleases all night long and then acts like he has the right to ask about her." Her eyes are suddenly brimming with tears. "She could have died last night, for all you cared."

He feels a twinge of guilt, and has the uneasy feeling that Ginny may have a point. He had planned on visiting Hermione again after his encounter with the Purebloods, but Neville had wanted to talk about the meeting, and by the time they were through, Harry was in no shape to do anything except collapse on his bed, though his sleep was short and unpleasant.

"Ginny…" he begins, reluctant to admit a mistake to the girl who will mostly likely pounce on any apology as a sign of weakness, but he forces himself to continue. "You're right, I should have come back to see her last night, but I was doing something that really will help her."

She narrows her eyes at him. "Tell me what it was," she says, with only a hint of a request in her voice, but he can tell how badly she wants to know. He considers telling her for a heartbeat, but remembers that she is even less in control of her emotions than he is.

"I'm sorry, Ginny, but I can't." As soon as the first words are out of his mouth, her face shuts down once more, tightening with anger. He keeps talking, mainly to stave off another shouting match. "And then I was just so tired that I fell asleep after that."

"You were tired," she repeats flatly.

He nods, uncertain where this is leading.

"So what? You get a free pass because you're _tired_? Guess what? I'm fucking _exhausted_. I dread falling asleep because every single fucking night I have nightmares that are ten times worse than anything I ever had when Tom possessed me, because they're _my_ memories. I can't pinch myself enough to wake up from this nightmare," she adds in a softer voice. A defeated voice.

He looks up at her in surprise, startled by the idea that she might do something as human and vulnerable as suffer from nightmares. Does she just lie there in her dark dorm room, shaking and terrified?

Without giving himself time to reconsider, he reaches out to touch her chin and raises her eyes to meet his, and wonder of wonders, she doesn't flinch away at the contact. "I have nightmares, too," he says, looking at her evenly, willing her to see the truth in his eyes.

She jerks away, turning her back on him as she wipes her eyes. "It's not the same," she says emotionlessly to the wall. "He wasn't your brother, and you didn't let him down like I did. So fuck off."

Harry jerks back from the vitriol in her voice, wanting to shout at her that the only person who has failed is himself. Irritably, he stuffs his shaking hands into his pockets. By the time he's composed his thoughts and has his emotions tightly under wraps once more, Ginny is down the stairs and gone.

After a moment of indecision, he turns and heads back up the way he has come. He'll have to visit Hermione later, because Ginny has an uncanny way of bringing out the temper in him he tries so hard to keep hidden. He knows, logically, that she is probably just lashing out wildly because of pain, but the doors are shut and the windows barred, and he is really tired of running up against a brick wall when he tries to talk to her, and losing control when he fails. What makes it worse is that sometimes he catches little flickers of her former spitfire personality, but they're always gone in seconds, leaving him doubting that there is anything but bitterness and pain left within her.

He continues in a dark mood past the portraits still dozing and the suits of armor yawning themselves awake. Hesitating outside the snoring Fat Lady's portrait, he decides to keep wandering, trying to think of someplace he can be sure to be alone in the slowly awakening castle.

His stroll eventually takes him to the opposite end of the castle, and he's considering heading right back they way he has come when an ethereal voice floats over him. "Good morning, Harry."

He jumps, and looks around wildly to finally spot a pair of legs at his eye level. His eyes follow the legs up to Luna, who is sitting in one of the stained glass windows in a gauzy skirt and t-shirt, cocking her head to look at him.

"What are you doing here, Luna?" It's the first thing he can think of to say, and if it were anyone but Luna Lovegood, he or she would have probably pointed out that they are right at the base of Ravenclaw Tower, and had a lot more right here to be here than Harry does.

But Luna isn't anyone else.

"I love watching the sunrise through the colored glass," she says dreamily. "I can almost see the little fae dancing on the light if I look closely enough." She reaches down to him. "Here, come look." Before he can think about what is happening, Luna is tugging him up to sit on the wide stone windowsill with her, and he is trying to help without pulling her down with him.

He finally makes it up to the high ledge, plus a few scratches and out of breath. A year ago, this wouldn't have winded him, he thinks with disgust. He's skinnier and weaker now than he was living with the Dursleys' and growing up perpetually half-starved. So much has changed since finally defeating Voldemort, but most of it not in the ways he would have hoped.

Luna grins at him and gestures to the rays of filtered sunlight shining through the window. "Do you see any fairies?"

Despite how long he's known of Luna's odd fancies, he gives her "little fae" the benefit of the doubt, but of course all he can see is the flickering dust that the light picks up, and he tells her so. She doesn't seem the least bit disappointed, and gives him the enigmatic smile he knows so well. "After all, if you could see them every time, they wouldn't be special."

He concedes the point, and leans back and rests his head against the stone. He briefly considers telling her about Hermione, and rejects the idea. Right now, he wants to sit in peace with his friend, and forget about the pain and grief and worry that will come crashing back down on him as soon as the day starts properly.

For a few minutes, he just wants to pretend that everything is going to be okay.

Humming to herself, Luna returns to alternately gazing at the dappled beams of sunlight and through the various segments of the stained glass as the sun rises fully past the horizon.

This past summer, it was impossible to pretend normalcy, without Ron and with Hermione's ever-present, heavy silence and Ginny's rages. But by now, of course, he's gotten used to both. It's actually a little odd to be sitting here without Hermione nearby. He used to her being his constant shadow over the months since Ron died.

At the Burrow, he and Hermione would sit for hours in the room Ginny and Hermione had shared, not touching and usually not even acknowledging each other, but if he rose, Hermione usually joined him wherever he went within minutes. She had been on her own much more since returning to Hogwarts, but still usually at his side outside the Common Room. Until yesterday, at least.

Ginny, on the other hand, was restless and cagey over the summer, and reminded Harry of Sirius when he was trapped in his ancestral house. Many mornings she would run out the front door as if she wasn't planning on returning, but she'd always show up again late at night, when everyone except Harry, Hermione, and her mother was asleep, muddy and disheveled. Her mother, face strained with worry, would berate her half-heartedly for making them worry, Ginny yelling right back as if she relished the opportunity to fight. Mrs. Weasley was always the first to walk away from these fights, something that Percy and the twins swore had never happened before.

No one seems to be taking Ron's death as badly as the three of them.

"Will you teach us Defense lessons again, Harry?" He looks up, startled, to see Luna peering at him intently. _Not that question again._

He bites down a ruder response because this is Luna, and asks, "Why would you want me to?" in a level tone.

"Well, because the professors can't teach us the practical portion, but even if they could, you're one of the very best." Her voice is free of guile or flattery. "Neville told me Aurors would have taken you straight away if you had wanted, and they never take anyone without at least an E in NEWT-level Defense." She shrugs, like the last detail is inconsequential. "And, of course, you killed Voldemort."

Hearing her say his name makes him shudder. "Some people would say I didn't kill him soon enough," he says darkly, seeing Ron's body hit the floor, watching Ginny scream and Hermione collapse over him, and himself, sprinting hopelessly, half a minute too late at most. It's truly his fault Ron is dead, even if Ginny and Hermione never say it. Surely they are thinking it.

Luna's is suddenly leaning over him, her hands gently holding either side of his face. "No one says that, Harry," she says softly. "You did everything you could, and even though good people still died, that still doesn't mean it's your fault. _Voldemort_ was the reason people died that day." Her gray eyes are surprisingly focused, boring into him. "And you're the reason not everyone did."

He scrambles away from her, almost falling out of the windowsill in the process, and she pulls away calmly and sits back on her heels, watching him. He can't take her gentleness in her eyes. Ron is dead, Hermione almost died, and Ginny is a wreck, because he has let everyone down. Closing his eyes desperately, he finds his castle, puts Luna's words in the highest tower, and throws away the key. His failings don't deserve kindness.

When he opens his eyes, Luna is still there, looking impossibly serene. He lets himself down out of the window, not quite able to meet her eyes. "I have to go; I'll see you around."

She looks at him for a long moment before nodding, and returns to studying the sunlight. As he is turning to walk away, she says, just as if the thought has just occurred to her. "Did you know you saved Su Li's life, Harry?" He stops in his tracks, and turns to stare at her.

"Yes," she says, examining her hand, which is bathed in a refracted mix of blues, yellows, and violets. "She's quite amazing at curses, but atrocious at non-verbal spells. Rabastan Lestrange had her cornered with her wand crushed beneath his foot, but you killed him as you sprinted past the two of them toward Ronald when it looked like Rabastan might get in your way. No one else on our side was anywhere nearby." She turns to look at Harry, a small smile on her face. "She's terribly shy, but she might pluck up the courage to thank you one of these days."

Harry shakes his head, and turns again to walk away, refusing to let his thoughts so much as come near the possibility of some good thing coming out of Ron's murder.

What he's _really_ thinking, but doesn't want to tell Luna for fear of hurting her feelings, is that it isn't that he saved Su's life; it's that he has prevented hers from being one more name on the long list of people he's gotten killed due to his own incompetence.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_"Nothing is more wretched that the mind of a man conscious of guilt." _

_-Titus Maccius Plautus_

Harry wanders downstairs in a distracted daze after leaving Luna, too intent on his thoughts to notice where he is going. Eventually, he finds himself in the Great Hall, currently populated with only a handful of early risers, and sits down alone at the far end of the Gryffindor table to sort out his thoughts.

Understanding that the world did not end when Ron Weasley died is not a new concept to Harry, who was continually stunned in the days following Ron's death that the _world just kept turning_ and people ate and slept and fucked and shit despite the fact that his best friend was _murdered_. How could anyone be okay with that?

He still doesn't know the answer to that question.

What _is_ a new thought, however, is the idea that Harry might ever be able to link anything good as coming out of his best friend's death. At its root, the entire idea is anathema to his inner fount of Gryffindor loyalty, and he has to fight down instinctive revulsion to even properly consider the idea. Surely it would be the height of disloyalty to harbor anything except raw hatred and guilt for the circumstances surrounding that horrible day in May.

And yet…

Luna's words eat at him, in a way that no one else's have.

Mrs. Weasley, when she had recovered somewhat and could look at Harry or Hermione without bursting into tears, told him several times over the following weeks that Ron's death was not in any way his fault. She is at heart a kind person, though, and of course she would tell him that regardless of what she thought, so he had mentally discounted her reassurances without even stopping to think how he would feel if he somehow knew they were true.

And of course, the twins, Percy, and Mr. Weasley avoiding him for most of the summer did little except convince him that not only was he to blame, everyone else agrees that it is his fault that their brother, their son is dead.

And like a cancer, his blame consumed him. He spent most of the summer brooding, wishing he could have died instead of Ron, imagining how he could have gone back and changed events if the entire stock of Time-Turners hadn't been destroyed at the Ministry during his fifth year.

Ginny and he did little except fight over stupid things, but he is just now getting a glimpse how guilty she herself feels about her brother's death, but neither of them have been up for much true communication, or any at all, since that day. Yelling at each other is easy, trading barbed insults and shutting each other out is simple, but trying to actually share feelings with both of them as hot-headed as they are has been nothing but a consistent way to infuriate both of them.

Hermione, of course, became utterly silent after Ron died, and Harry has never heard her speak since. He doesn't blame her - he remembers being witness to the brief, passionate embrace she had shared with Ron only a few hours before, and wonders if Hermione could still taste Ron on her lips when she saw his body crumple to the floor.

Of course it was Harry's fault it had all come to this; how could it not be?

Then Luna said a few simple words that he had rejected outright a couple of hours ago, but some tiny part of him that he thought had long since died clung to her words. Luna is one of the few people Harry trusts to tell him the plain, unadorned truth. Partly because she's his friend, and partly because he doubts she even understands the compulsion people feel to lie out of sympathy or for ulterior motives.

The first part, he already knew. He _had_ done the best he could. He had incapacitated at least a half dozen Death Eaters on his own – _and your best wasn't good enough_, the familiar, nasty little voice in the back of his head pipes up. _No_, he thinks to himself ruthlessly, _it certainly wasn't. But I'm not God, either, and I'm not all-knowing or all-powerful._

He had trained Ron to be almost as good as he was at dueling, and had believed that other people needed more help during the battle than Ron did. And, yes, he had been wrong_,_ but that was out of his control. Maybe he should have stayed by Ron's side, but the fact remained that it was _Tom Riddle_ who had decided to attack a school full of innocent children and kill everyone he could, not Harry.

And he couldn't protect everyone; it was impossible.

Harry sighs, scrubbing his hands through his hair, and tries to reach some sort of reconciliation between his conflicting thoughts.

No, he couldn't have known Ron would die, but he could have _guessed._ But then, who else might have died in place of Ron? He can't remember all the people he helped during the Battle, or even guess which ones might have died without him being there, but he knows he aided at least Ginny, Padma Patil, the Weasley twins, Dennis Creevey, and Ernie MacMillian. And, apparently, Su Li. Who would he have chosen to die in Ron's place? He could never have made a decision like that, he knows.

He remembers Ron's face, pale but determined, when he sacrificed himself on the chessboard so that he and Hermione could move forward when they were searching for the Stone. Very likely Ron would never have _wanted_ anyone to make a decision like that.

_What would you say if you were here right now, Ron?_

"Probably that he's sick and tired of you beating yourself up for something that wasn't your fault." Neville says cheerfully as he slides in next to Harry, and Seamus joins them on Harry's other side. He looks up, startled. He hadn't realized he had spoken out loud.

Neville reaches for the eggs and drops a big spoonful on Harry's plate before filling his own. Harry stares at him, trying to decide whether or not to be angry at how casually Neville can speak about his best friend's death.

Looking back at him unrepentantly, Neville swallows a bite before saying, "I told you how much I liked and respected Ron, Harry. I cried, when he died and at his funeral. I'll always carry a little bit of grief inside me over it. But you and Ginny and even Hermione act like each of you killed him and hate yourselves for it." He frowns. "It isn't healthy, and it's not what Ron would have wanted."

In a way, Harry trusts Neville to tell him the simple truth as he sees it just as much as he does Luna. So he swallows down his first response, which is a defensive retort that it's easy for Neville to say that, when _he_ doesn't have to walk around feeling like he's dying from the inside out, when he considers the last bit. What _would_ Ron have wanted?

Apart from that one, half-joking wish for just retribution for Malfoy's family, he can't know for sure what Ron would have wanted. Well, he would have wanted Harry to look out for Hermione, yes, that much Ron as good as told him, just from knowing how much Ron had loved her.

And he would have wanted Ginny to move on, too. Harry remembers how protective Ron was of his little sister, how he'd almost punched him when he'd thought Harry was manipulating her feelings at the Burrow.

Without a doubt, Harry thinks with a pang, he has let Ron down when it comes to Ginny. But dealing with his ex-girlfriend is so bloody painful, when he only has to let his mind wander a little to remember pressing her up against a tree at the lake and snogging her until both of them were short of breath and wild-eyed, two years past. Being around her now is excruciating, partly because he has now let both her _and_ her brother down, but mostly because he knows he and Ginny will never have moments like these ever again. They've both changed too much. She can't even stand for him to touch her, for god's sake.

Not that he even wants to, he tells himself firmly. Ginny and he have nothing in common anymore, and anyway, she hates him completely.

Neville is looking at him, waiting for a response. Even Seamus looks up from his breakfast to watch their exchange. "It isn't what Ron would have wanted," Harry repeats slowly, testing out the idea.

Neville nods, and places a fork in his hand. Without thinking, Harry takes a bite of scrambled eggs and chews slowly. They don't taste _good_, but he doesn't feel like he needs to throw up immediately after, either.

"Ron wasn't willing to sacrifice himself so that everyone he loved would be miserable, Harry. Think about it. Is that what _you_ would have wanted, if you had died that day instead?"

Harry stares at Neville in incomprehension. "Of course not. I'd want them to move on."

A small smile comes over Neville's face, and he reaches over to squeeze Harry's shoulder. "You're self-centered in a very noble way, Harry," he says gently. "You think you have to carry everyone's burdens for them. But Ron made a decision that day, to stay and fight, and in a way, you're saying that he wasn't fit to make his own decisions by insisting on taking the blame for his actions. You see?"

Harry shuts his eyes, trying to shut out the roar of hundreds of students eating breakfast so he can consider this. The idea that Ron had the right to put himself is one that has never crossed his mind. Mentally, the concept sits outside his tightly shut Occlumency castle, a pulsing idea that frightens him, because it means he needs to change his way of thinking. It means he needs to act, not just react.

"I'm not honoring Ron's wishes." It's the logical conclusion, but it leaves him reeling.

Neville nods. "I don't think you've properly grieved, Harry. You've got to do what you need to do to accept his death, and then move _on_. Ron wouldn't have wanted it any other way."

But Harry isn't listening anymore. He rises mechanically, leaving his half-eaten food behind, the only thought on his mind is that he has not taken care of Ginny and Hermione as he should have, so caught up has he been in his own self-flagellation and selfish guilt.

Deciding to guard Hermione was not good enough; he must do what it takes to _fix_ both her and Ginny. Whatever the two of them need to recover from Ron's murder, he will see that they have it.

"Er, Harry?" Neville and Seamus are looking at him in confusion, but Harry ignores them, only pausing to pocket an apple before leaving the Great Hall. He needs to find the girls and hopefully begin to make amends for his failings.

After the noise of the Great Hall, the cool calmness of the Infirmary is shocking. He doesn't see Madame Pomfrey, and apart from a sleeping student with a pulsating purple rash covering his face and arms, the main portion of the Wing is empty, so he enters the private section where Hermione is staying.

Ginny, who had been staring out the window in a chair close to the bed, jerks when he enters the room. She's pulled her hair back in a messy ponytail, but that same shirt still swamps her body, with room enough for her to pull her knees up to her chest inside it.

He holds out the apple to her, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. "I grabbed this for you, but if you want to go down for breakfast, I'll stay with her until you get back."

She eyes the apple warily as if she thinks he might have poisoned it, but after a long hesitation, reaches out and takes it, and turns away again without a word. It's a start.

He walks over to Hermione's other side, studying his best friend. Just as before, Hermione is shockingly still, but her day in stasis seems to have relaxed her body enough to remove some of the worry lines Harry hadn't even noticed until they're gone. Her face is so familiar, but he's never taken the time to study it like he has Ginny's. For the first time, he really sees her. She is too thin, though not as gaunt as Ginny is, due to her self-imposed eating schedule, but her face is drawn and tense, with heavy shadows under her eyes. He closes his eyes. _And she almost died._

This whole situation reminds him of when Hermione was Petrified second-year, though he doesn't have the impending cure of Mandrakes to calm his worry this time. He fights down a wave of anger and hopelessness from the memory of Hermione dying in his arms. Astoria and her friends are in a much better position to discover the would-be murderer than he is, and they are working on it. He _will_ find vengeance.

He'd spent so many hours by her side his second year, almost in this exact same spot, reading homework to her and just sitting with Ron, talking. Ron should be here with her now. Hell, he has more right to be here than Harry does.

_But he isn't here_, _so I'm going to have to do the best I can_.

He wonders who is in more pain, Ginny or Hermione. His own must pale in comparison to Ginny's, for losing her closest brother, and Hermione's, for the man she loved. How long, he wonders? He has known of Hermione's feelings for Ron since their fifth year, but he wouldn't be surprised if Hermione had hidden it for far longer than that. He remembers sitting with her after she had found Ron snogging Lavender Brown. She hadn't deserved that, but Ron could be hurtfully stubborn.

He frowns. He shouldn't be thinking ill of his dead friend.

Without thinking, he reaches out to smooth a strand of wavy hair back from Hermione's eyes, memorizing her face as he tries to imagine how he can better protect her from now on. Finding out how she was poisoned will give him some direction. Do they need to test her food before every meal, or was she exposed to poisonous fumes somewhere? Or is Professor Snape wrong, and her symptoms are of a curse, not a poison? He brushes his hand against her cheek. He has let her down once already, but never again.

A tiny sound makes him look up, and Ginny is staring at him as if she's never seen him before, eyes wide. Confused, he stares right back at her, and Ginny seems to shrink into herself and drops her eyes.

He drops down in the closest chair and glances at his watch. Twenty minutes till classes start, not that he cares about missing class, but doing anything out of the ordinary will attract attention he doesn't want. He can only too vividly imagine McGonagall or Sinistra sitting him down in her office, trying to persuade him to talk about his "feelings" with her.

His thoughts are running in a dozen new directions since waking up only a few hours ago, but the concept of protecting Ginny and Hermione, of helping them move on, seems to have finally sunk in, and his castle jolts and shifts perceptibly to adapt to the new construct.

He waits for everything to come crashing down, but it seems his shields will hold. He breathes out a long sigh of relief. He won't have to pull out the tangled mess of emotions that he has carefully guarded in his innermost room since Ron's death in order to do what he needs to do.

Looking up, he catches Ginny watching him again. The urge to make things right between them is suddenly overwhelming, and he can't help her if they can't even have a normal conversation. So he says the first thing that comes to his mind. "It wasn't your fault about Ron, Ginny. It was much more mine than it was yours, but it wasn't truly either of our faults."

Ginny jerks like he has pinched her, but says nothing, so Harry continues on recklessly, "He made a choice to fight, like we all did, and to try to punish ourselves for his decision sort of defeats the purpose."

_That _gets a reaction. Ginny jumps up, her entire body taut, untouched apple clenched in her hand like she wants to squeeze it to a pulp.

"He made that decision not knowing how _fucking_ pathetic I would be. I had Bellatrix Lestrange disarmed, and I couldn't kill her. I had her _disarmed_ long enough to cast the Killing Curse on her, and I couldn't do it!" She is shrieking by the end.

"You have to mean it, with all your heart," Harry says, trying to push away the pain at knowing how much this failure must torment her. How much it had tormented _him_, when he couldn't hurt Bellatrix after she had murdered Sirius.

"If I'd have known, less than ten minutes later, that she'd… that she'd…" She squeezes her eyes shut, as if trying hold off tears. He wants to reach for her, to comfort her, but something inside him knows she will lash out at physical contact, so he stays seated, eyes not leaving her.

Breathing heavily, she finally opens them again. "I'm going to class," she says tonelessly, not making eye contact with him, and gives Hermione one last look before leaving the room.

He sighs. Well, at least they hadn't yelled at each other this time.

Turning back to Hermione, he reaches out to grasp her limp hand. He _will_ make things right for both of them, no matter how difficult it is. He has let Ron down by neglecting Ginny and Hermione for so long, but no more.

He will do whatever they need to be safe, and to heal.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

_"After desolation, grief brings back our humanity."_

_ - Mason Cooley_

That evening after a quick dinner, Harry leaves Neville and Seamus behind to climb the stairs toward McGonagall's office. He glances down at the scrap of parchment she slipped him early that afternoon, and snorts at the password written in the Headmistress's elegant hand. "Plato's _Republic."_ The gargoyles jump aside, and Harry ascends the winding staircase, slipping inside the half-open door at the top.

The office is much less cluttered than it was under Dumbledore's leadership, with a distinctly more business-like atmosphere, the many open surfaces dusted and polished. A poster-sized strip of parchment is spread across McGonagall's desk, lines of neat handwriting mixed in with scribbles, and several diagrams and charts scattered across the edges, in front of which the Headmistress is pacing and muttering to herself when he enters.

"Mr. Potter," she greets him formally, then her mouth quirks. "I do hope you'll allow me to call you Harry in privacy? I feel that you have rather earned the right." She gestures him to a tartan-upholstered armchair across from her massive desk.

"Of course, Professor – er, Headmistress."

She waves the title away, and sits down across from him, peering at him over the edge of her reading glasses. She looks tired.

"Harry, I would like for you to feel comfortable talking to me. I did mean what I said at the start of term feast. Every professor is available to any student who needs someone to talk to, including myself."

Harry just stares at her, forgetting for a moment how rude that might seem. He has always respected McGonagall, but the idea of talking about something so utterly…soft as his _feelings_ with her is about as likely as Percy starting a band, or one of the Weasley twins beginning a respectable career at the Ministry.

She smiles a bit ruefully. "This is a suggestion, not an order, Harry, but I hope you will take it to heart. I have borne many grievances over my lifetime, and have learned that truly, a pain shared is a pain halved when you are in the presence of friends."

Harry nods politely, but inside he wonders how much longer until he can return to the Hospital Wing to be with Ginny and Hermione. He is certain Ginny will not leave Hermione alone to get dinner, and she has missed too many meals as it is.

McGonagall seems to sense his reticence and nods briskly, changing the subject. "Please think on it, Harry. But the true reason I asked you to come is to discuss this dreadful incident with Ms. Granger. I have talked to Professor Snape's portrait as well as several Healers at St. Mungo's, and they all assure me that she is in no immediate danger." Her eyes wander again to the large parchment stretched in front of her. "Oh, and Professor Snape asked you to come see him tomorrow morning at eight in his former Potions classroom. The house elves have already moved his frame."

"Yes, Professor," Harry replies dutifully, trying to hide his grimace at Snape insisting he be functional so early on a weekend.

McGonagall rises abruptly and walks toward the window, though she can't possibly see anything through it besides low clouds and the deep purple night sky.

"I am deeply troubled that such an attack would occur on school grounds, when Voldemort is dead and we should all be at peace and focused on rebuilding. Such a tragedy would never have happened under Albus's watch," she says softly, turning to look over Harry's head. Harry follows her gaze to Dumbledore's official portrait, hanging dark and empty.

Her eyes grow misty as they settle on him again. "Therefore, I apologize, deeply and sincerely, to you, Harry, and I will apologize again to Ms. Granger when she awakens. It was through my own negligence that you came so close to seeing another dear friend murdered."

Harry squirms uncomfortably. It's still a painful jolt of electricity to hear other people refer to Ron, almost as if Harry hadn't realized his death would affect others, as well.

"I have spent my time ensuring Ms. Granger's safety, but tomorrow I will contact the Aurors and request a team be brought in for a full-scale investigation. I did not wish to so thoroughly disrupt the routine at Hogwarts, when we have so recently re-established order, but I fear it will be necessary."

"No," Harry says immediately, gripping the arms of the chair and truly engaged for the first time in the conversation. _'His' Purebloods_, as he has taken to mentally referring to them, can infiltrate the cracks in the bubbling politics at Hogwarts, the little trails that they can trace back to the criminal. Having Aurors at Hogwarts would make people even more suspicious and certainly send the almost-murderer running for cover.

McGonagall looks taken aback. "Surely, you, of all people, Harry-"

"I'm sorry, Professor, but I'm already taking care of it. I'm handling everything, and the Aurors would only muck it up." He raises his chin and tries to project calm certainty into his voice. He is met with a long silence, and remembers that in the Headmistress's eyes, he is still something of a child, no matter that he is a legal adult now.

The golden grandfather clock near the door ticks steadily into the silence, and McGonagall finally nods. "You have more than proven yourself capable, and the last thing we need is more interference from the Ministry. I give you two weeks." Her gaze turns stern. "You must provide _indisputable_ proof of the crime, and you must promise not to punish the criminal or criminals until you have brought them to me."

He bites down a spark of resentment to be so constrained, but then a distinctly _Slytherin_ thought pops into his head. The Headmistress doesn't know about his Purebloods, so she hasn't asked him to promise that _they_ will do nothing. So he tries to look suitably yielding, and nods. "I promise, Headmistress."

"In that case, I wish you all the best, Harry." She gives him a brief pat on the shoulder. "I mean to start anew at Hogwarts, and I will not have any sort of vileness here, from anyone. The justification of violence is a slippery slope down which wise men tread carefully_._" She shakes her head. "Anyway, enough of that. I will let you go, as I know you will be up bright and early for Severus." Chuckling at the expression on his face, she leads Harry to the door.

Suddenly, he can't pass up the chance to ask something that has been bothering him since he returned to Hogwarts. He turns to face her. "Headmistress, why is…" His throat is stuck. "Why is Ron's bed still in our dormitory?"

McGonagall inhales sharply, staring at him as if he has just told her he wants to be the next Dark Lord. "I can assure you, Harry… it is not. I was in every Gryffindor room only yesterday, checking the wards, as they have weakened in other places around the castle." She is still staring, and Harry fights down a bolt of alarm that reminds him uncomfortably of finding out that he was the only one who could hear the Basilisk in his second year.

"Are you certain…no, I will not ask that; you see what you see. I can only tell you that the Room of Hidden Things is not the only instance where the Castle has been known to provide its inhabitants what they need, while everyone else may be unaffected. That you need to see Mr. Weasley's bed still is…troubling." Her eyes clear, and she is back to her usual brusque manner. "As I said, Harry, these are demons that you must decide to face; but when you do, my door is always open to you.

He sighs. Back to that again. Why does no one else seem to realize that he has his own methods of coping, and that not only is he surviving, he has finally woken up to his need to help Hermione and Ginny, as well?

He is polite, of course, as he nods and bids her goodnight. He has learned that the path of least resistance usually lies in distant politeness, in pushing people away without angering them. Even at Hogwarts, the technique worked well on almost anyone he wanted, though Ron and Hermione would never let themselves be pushed away. Nor did Ginny, when they got to be friends.

He shakes his head, willing away memories of happier days with a laughing Hermione, healthy-looking Ginny, and his gloriously, thrillingly, alive best mate. Getting either Ginny or Hermione back to their old selves seems almost impossible, but he will try. It hurts, to act and plan instead of passively react, but he will do it anyway.

* * *

As he threads his way back through the main wing of the castle, he notices how busy it is, even for a Friday night. It seems that many of the students have finally relaxed enough into the new school year to shout and giggle and tease each other as they walk and mingle in the halls in groups of three or four. It's as if they've forgotten what happened here, barely three months past.

He knows he is forever changed. The habits he learned while being on the run die hard, and as he walks back toward the Infirmary, thinking of Hermione and Ginny, he is aware of his surroundings, automatically scanning the dark corners and shadowed nooks where attackers could lie in wait. He doubts event the most reckless Dark sympathizer would attack him in public, but someone attacked Hermione at an even more crowded time than this, after all.

Someone pulls back into a crossing corridor as Harry passes. His eyes immediately follow the movement to meet Draco Malfoy's unreadable stare. Malfoy's lip curls into a familiar grimace, but then he presses his lips together and turns away. A burly boy Harry doesn't recognize, a year or two younger than him, reaches out to pull Malfoy back into the passageway and meets Harry's eyes for a split second before dropping them.

Submission. Harry doesn't doubt for a second that it's feigned, but he knows he can best Malfoy in a duel, and a boy both too young to have peaked in power and unlikely to have trained as hard as Harry, is a long shot odd to win any fight against him. On anything approaching a level playing field, at least.

He glances over at them, noting how they keep their hands far from their wands, and walks on. Could Malfoy have attacked Hermione? But why now? Muggleborns had never been better protected or more highly thought of, if even half of what his Purebloods say is true, and Malfoy has had years in which to hurt her. Or perhaps it is this unknown boy, with malice in his eyes, who leads the dark Slytherins now.

It doesn't matter. Either his Purebloods will find out that Malfoy and his ilk hurt Hermione, or someone else did. Whoever almost succeeded in taking her from him will pay; it is as simple as that, though he will take no more pleasure in revenge than he would at killing a rabid dog. He knows the dangers of violence, the temptation of murder, better than most. He has seen the darkest corners of Voldemort's mind, the bundle of that awful _thing_ in King's Cross when he was dead, and he knows how violence can twist and tear someone's soul to unrecognizable shreds, into something worse than death.

No, he is not evil, but he is not the bright-eyed 11-year-old boy that McGonagall remembers anymore, either, and some prices are worth the gain. Revenge on Hermione's will be one of those, but he will wait patiently for proof.

His Occlumency wards, which have been so unstable recently, hum happily. Rage, and the promise of pain to come, they can understand.

* * *

The Hospital Wing is dark and silent when he walks in, and he casts a _Silencio_ on his shoes to hopefully avoid waking Madame Pomfrey. He tiptoes past her office door to the private section, and slips inside. Ginny is lying across the foot of Hermione's bed, bare legs dangling off the edge, when he walks in, and she gives no signs that she sees him.

He grabs a chair and sits down slowly, but the chair creaks, and Ginny opens her eyes and sits up, reaching out to clasp Hermione's blanket-covered ankle, as if to make sure she is still there.

"How was your class?" Harry asks her, and tries to project polite curiosity in his voice. No yelling, no fighting, in his goal, no matter how tempting it might be.

She scowls. "It was that stupid counseling class, and it was bullocks. Michael Corner spent the whole time trying to 'comfort' me, so I cursed his ears off."

That actually brings a small smile to his face. He has never liked Michael, a pretty boy who remained entirely too interested in getting into Ginny knickers even after she broke up with him. Not, of course, that he cares who is interested in Ginny, but he knows that romance is not what she needs right now. She needs to heal, even if he has to tell her every day for the rest of her life that Ron's death was not her fault.

"Did you get in trouble?" He doubts it. Despite her pranks and curses, she has rarely been punished for her exploits. An angelic smile and a pretty face get her out of most trouble, it seems, and Fred and George have told him that she is devious enough make both of them look like angels.

"No," she says, looking satisfied, but then twitches as if she has only just realized who she is talking to. Her face darkens, and she falls back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. She doesn't move, and Harry doesn't know how to pull her back to something approaching the comfortable familiarity he once had with her.

Then an idea occurs to him._ How would _Hermione_ act if she wanted Ginny to relax and open up around her?_

He barely even has to pause to consider. Hermione would be _nice_ to her, considerate without being patronizing. Somewhere in the back of his head, Harry has not ever made a conscious effort to be nice to Ginny, because there's a good chance she would seize the opportunity to…

To what? He's not fighting for his life anymore; what's really the worst she could do? Hit him? Curse him? He deserves that and more, a thousand times over, for his failures. And as angry as she is with him all the time, he knows she wouldn't seriously hurt him, any more than he would her.

But if she was talking to Hermione, he doubts Ginny would even consider attacking. Why is that? Again, the answer is easy. _Because Hermione would genuinely care about Ginny, and not retaliate if she lashed out at first. _

He wants to laugh. He barely understands his own feelings most of the time, and usually tries to block away the few that he does notice, but somehow, he's going to have to reach out to Ginny and act like he has some idea of what he's doing.

This is going to be a massive, horrible failure, one that could end with much worse than his ears cursed off. But he has to try.

He reaches across to touch Ginny's knee, then draws back. That's something Hermione would do, but he remembers how Ginny flinches now when he touches her. That hurts, knowing she shies away from even the softest physical contact with him, but tonight isn't about his feeling, so he pushes that concern back behind his Occlumency walls and tries again, speaking softly, calmly. "You must be hungry, Ginny."

"I'm never hungry," she says in a listless tone, not looking at him. He knows the feeling.

He opens his mouth to tell her that's not the point and she needs to eat anyway, but decides to try another tactic. "I'm never hungry, either. But Neville's been pushing me to eat a little, anyway, every meal, and I really do feel a bit better when I do."

She sighs noisily. "I don't _want_ to feel better."

This isn't accomplishing anything.

He closes his eyes, trying to channel the old Hermione's empathy, and knows he has to do something much more difficult - talk about his own emotions. He takes a deep breath, and presses on. "In a way, I don't eat much because I'm not hungry, but a lot if it is that I want to punish myself. I _deserve_ the punishment."

After a long pause, Ginny speaks softly, voice trembling. "I don't want to eat because if I go back to eating like I'm supposed it, it means I'm okay that Ron's gone, I'm okay that I let him die. And I don't _ever_ want to be okay with it. I won't let that happen."

Again, Harry fights down the urge to correct her, to tell her it's not in any way her fault. But he has been down that path, and it was a dead end. "I know it hurts, but it's not something Ron ever would have wanted, us punishing ourselves like this."

She sits bolt upright. "You have no idea," she snaps. "You don't know that, he'd probably say we deserve it-"

He stands up, and walks so he is right in front of her, not quite touching. He looks into her eyes, sees her anger, but it's suddenly so obvious to him now that he thinks about it that the constant hostility is only a tautly-wrapped façade over an endless fount of pain.

"No, Ginny," he whispers, feeling an overwhelming surge of sympathy for her. "You know this isn't what he would have wanted. You _know_ that. He would have hated to see you torture yourself like this." He tries to project the absolute certainty he has, that Ron would have sacrificed himself a dozen more times to prevent his sister from feeling the way she does now.

Ginny's eyes are swimming as she stares at him, lower lip trembling. "He'd forgive you, Ginny. He'd tell you there was nothing to forgive, but you'd insist, and he'd forgive you anyway." He leans over her and looks her in the eyes. "I _promise_ you that."

She lets out a long breath of air, and then suddenly she is racked with choking, almost-silent sobs, crying so hard the bed is rocking. Harry tries to make himself believe that making her cry so hard that she can't breathe is a good thing. He kneels in front of her, trying to seem non-threatening but supportive, but she ignores him, seeming to collapse in upon herself as she cries.

Finally, she seems to exhaust herself, and he silently conjures her a handkerchief. He is careful to hand it to her in such a way that she doesn't have to touch him, but she reaches out blindly to take it from his grasp, and brushes her fingers against his without reaction, and wipes her face dry. He rises. "Come lie down, Ginny, just for a bit. I'll watch over Hermione while you rest."

To his shock, she obediently follows him to the small sofa in the far corner, and he pulls an extra sheet from under Hermione's bed and hands it to her. After a small hesitation, she curls up under the blanket and turns on her side, just watching him, some of the wariness returning to her eyes.

"I'm going to dim the lights," he says softly, as if he's worried he might wake Hermione. "But I'll be right here. Just say my name if you need anything, I'll wake up."

She nods slowly, takes a deep breath, and turns onto her other side. Harry quickly checks on Hermione – nothing seems to be changed; she is still breathing every half minute or so, face relaxed, so he pulls out the last blanket from under the bed and stretches out on the floor with it. Not the most comfortable arrangement, but he's had worse, and he's much happier sleeping here, with both Ginny and Hermione with him, than he would be alone in the Tower.

That realization gives him pause, because he can't immediately think of a suitable explanation for it, but just figures it's because he knows they are protected and safe if they are in here with him. The outside world is another story, but he can deal with that later. Tomorrow.

Tonight, he will enjoy the peace.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

_"Forgiveness is a virtue of the brave."_

_-Indira Gandhi_

When Madame Pomfrey wakes him at daybreak, a frown on her face from seeing that he has slept there all night, the first thing that Harry thinks of is that his sleep was completely devoid of dreams. He can't remember the last night he has not suffered from nightmares. Ginny, still asleep, looks to have slept through the whole night, too, hair fanned out across the couch cushion and the sheet balled at her feet in roughly the same position he left her.

Rising and wincing from the aches in his back, He glances one last time at Ginny and Hermione, both lying so still, and bids good morning to the still disgruntled, matronly nurse. He checks his watch as he steps out into the quiet hallway and realizes he will not have time for breakfast before meeting Snape. He will need to eat twice as much as usual at lunch, then. His body already feels much stronger, much less shaky, from eating regular meals over the past few days.

His footsteps echo in the long corridor as he makes his way to the Potions classroom, trying to recall the calm, mechanical mindset that had served him so well in Slughorn's class. He spots the Fat Friar and one of the nameless ghosts floating through the stone walls, murmuring together, but doesn't see any living creature. He wrinkles his nose as he descends deeper. He has never liked the way the dungeons smell, damp and clammy and vaguely of burnt potions ingredients.

When he reaches the correct classroom, he hesitates. He can hear Snape's icy tones, berating someone. "It is unlikely to accomplish anything at best, painfully fatal at worst - _think_, Draco!"

Malfoy is here?

_Think, don't react_. His Occlumency walls throb, but they absorb his rage, his immediate urge to rush in and throttle him, both for what he said about Ron, and for being potentially culpable in Hermione's poisoning.

No, he will be patient. Draco Malfoy is an annoyance, but if he really considers it, he's an unlikely suspect. Practically the entire wizarding world views the Malfoys as a disgrace almost as abhorrent as the Lestranges or Voldemort himself, and even Harry, as dense as he is with political and social matters, can see that the Purebloods are correct, and the pendulum of public opinion has swung heavily in the muggleborns' favor. Malfoy would have much more than just Harry's wrath to face if he harmed Hermione.

He steps through the doorway, and Snape cuts off. A sulky-looking Malfoy turns to stare at Harry without saying a word, before dropping his head to check on a potion. For some reason, Zabini is here, sitting in the back of the room and shredding belladonna into a glass jar, looking bored. He doesn't look up.

The room is smoky with the scent of brewing potions, and three mismatched cauldrons sit bubbling over fire, several others partly filled with ingredients. Snape growls at Harry over the book in his lap, "Shut the damn door, Potter, and sit down."

Harry frowns at Zabini, who is supposed to be working on figuring out Hermione's attacker, but does as he is told, and takes a seat in front of a large pile of shrivelfig."What do I need to do, Professor?" he asks. Politely.

Snape rolls his eyes. "Manual labor, Potter. I hardly think risking your friend's life is the ideal way to prove to me that your near-competence in Slughorn's class is not due entirely to sheer luck."

Harry's lips quirk, but he ducks his head and nods obediently so Snape doesn't see. He is fairly certain there is a veiled compliment hidden in the barbs.

Snape returns to his book, and Harry closes his eyes and strives for that calm, emotionless state, pushing all his worries and fears behind his walls. He's been letting too much emotion leak out lately, anyway. Finally, he is ready. He picks up the knife, and his cuts are as precise and neat as Snape's ever were; he refuses to let any failure on creating Hermione's antidote be his fault, when he has failed so much already.

While he works, Snape starts in again on Draco, hissing in an exasperated voice that is nonetheless audible to Harry's ears. "_Think_, what would cause bleeding from the membranes, seizures, pain, and erratic heartbeats, but prolong the death for a quarter hour or more?"

Malfoy tosses his head irritably, and slams his stirring rod down on the work table. "_You're_ the Potions Master here, Professor," he snaps, pulling a golden scale toward him with much more force than necessary. "I still don't see why I have to be here at all, I hate Granger-"

Snape shuts his book with a loud snap. "Did you perhaps _consider_ that Miss Granger's brush with death might place you at the top of a suspect's list?" Harry almost nods along before he catches himself. Snape looms large in his portrait, staring down Malfoy. "And that in today's climate and absent your one supporter's interference, you might well find yourself sitting in a cell in Azkaban tomorrow, awaiting hearings that are continually 'rescheduled' until they are forgotten? No? You did not? Then kindly allow me to guide you until you grow a _brain_ between those ears."

Glaring at the work desk and muttering to himself, Malfoy nevertheless continues to measure out ingredients with practiced movements, never hesitating as he works. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry can see Zabini working obliviously on his own Potion, not seeming to notice the waves of anger that are flowing off of Malfoy.

"Potter!"

Harry jumps, almost cutting off his fingertip instead of the Assyrian mint leaves he has moved on to. "Yes, sir?"

"Relay your complete experience with Miss Granger from the moment she first exhibited signs of malaise. Leave no detail out."

Harry grimaces, fighting back the tide of emotions that this memory brings up – frustration, helplessness, hatred. Terror. Once he is sure his Occlumency walls are solid, he repeats everything he can remember after seeing Hermione collapse in a level, even voice, trying not to think too hard about what he is saying, or how Hermione looked, crumpled in his arms.

Malfoy looks interested, despite himself. "No rash or pox, Potter?"

Harry closes his eyes to remember. "No, unless they was under her robes."

Looking like he is about to say something entirely different, Malfoy closes his mouth and opens it again. "Blisters? Cuts or scrapes that weren't there before? Bruises" Harry shakes his head. "If there had been skin discoloration, it would have been on her extremities or face, almost certainly."

Snape grunts. "Almost certainly is not always, Draco. However. What conclusions do you draw from this?" Harry isn't sure if he's genuinely asking Draco's opinion, or just testing him.

Malfoy turns and reaches for a black bound notebook on his table, and leafs through it, making a note of something, and turns back to Snape. "No skin affliction plus the other side effects makes it unlikely to be a plant-based toxin. We're probably looking at something animal or elemental-based."

Snape inclines his head. "My thoughts as well. A vial of Miss Granger's blood obtained an hour after the incident is located in the freezer. I would suggest beginning with the lower level Ministry-classified creatures and working your way through them, first. One may hope the attacker was foolish enough to use an easily traced creature as the poison's base."

Draco nods, briskly, and turns to stir at the smallest of the cauldrons, bubbling over a low yellow flame.

Snape returns to his painted armchair, and surveys the classroom and the three students in it with varying degrees of contempt. Harry, intending to be completely helpful so that hopefully Hermione can be healed all the quicker, silently slides down the bench to begin disemboweling the piles of newts at the far end, neatly arranged in order of species.

"Zabini."

Blaise, who had been scratching notes onto a scrap of parchment, and ignoring everyone else, looks up coolly. "Professor?"

"Do you have experience with any of the higher order creature-based poisons?"

Harry blinks. Why on earth would Snape expect Zabini to have knowledge of Potions outside of what he, Snape, and Slughorn have taught them?

Zabini's eyes narrow. "_Personally_, sir?" His voice is even, but Harry has gotten very good at detecting danger from guileless-seeming exteriors, and the dark-skinned boy looks ready to kill Snape, or at least, destroy his portrait. How good is he at dueling, Harry wonders? He's hardly ever seen Zabini outside of class until this year. Is he more dangerous to have as an ally or an enemy?

Seconds pass, and Snape's expression remains flat, though he stares intently down from his frame. Finally, Zabini shrugs a shoulder, and the threat melts away, leaving Harry uncertain that the tension ever existed. "I might have a few… resources I could consult."

Snape nods, as if this response somehow makes sense, and turns back to his book. "See that you do."

They work in silence for the next hour, the only sounds the hissing coming from the cauldrons and Harry's tools as he prepares all the ingredients lying out in the room.

When he is satisfied that the last of the leatherfly eggs are painstakingly but flawlessly peeled and piled in a pewter bowl, Harry rises and approaches Snape's portrait. "Is there anything else I can do, Professor?"

Snape cuts his eyes over to him, but merely says, "I will contact you if I need anything else, Potter. Dismissed." Harry nods politely and heads for the door. Neither Malfoy nor Zabini so much as glance at him as he slips out, and leaves the humid, smoky classroom, with its three tense and confusing inhabitants, behind him.

* * *

He is almost to the Great Hall for an early lunch when Astoria Greengrass and another pureblood he remembers from his Grief class (Tracey?) appear from a passing hallway and are suddenly walking casually on either side of him.

"Er," he says eloquently. "Hello?" He starts to ask them about their search, before he reconsiders. Even on a late Saturday morning, there are plenty of students in the main hallways, seeking lunch or the library or the crisp autumn day outside, and he doesn't want to tip off the potential attacker to their search.

Tracey cuts her eyes over to Astoria, who smirks. "Go for a walk with us, Potter? We want to talk with you for a bit." He has the feeling that this is a test, but over what, he doesn't know.

He is starving, he realizes. Just like he used to feel when he missed meals, which up until the past year had been thankfully rare outside of the Dursleys'. "Okay, but I haven't eaten yet today-" Tracey pulls a handful of sandwiches wrapped in a linen cloth out of her book bag and hands them to him wordlessly.

He blinks. "Alright then, thank you, Tracey, right?"

Tracey stares at him like he has just said something profane. "I'm generously choosing to believe you're just oblivious, Potter, and not completely stupid or self-centered."

He shrugs and takes a bite of one of the sandwiches. That comment might have upset him a year ago, but nothing is important now except healing Hermione, which is in progress, and finding her would-be killer, a project that both of these girls are helping him with.

"That's okay, Tracey, he didn't have even the _slightest_ idea who I was," Astoria says.

Tracey doesn't look reassured. "I've been in at least half his classes for the past six _years._" Her disgusted shudder is obviously exaggerated, though, and she doesn't _look_ upset.

Harry can feel a grin creeping on to his face, and forces it away. He doesn't joke with Slytherins. He forms semi-legal political alliances with them, yes, but nothing approaching friendship.

"Where are we going?" he asks instead. They are almost to the Entrance Hall, and Astoria pauses to let a gaggle of Hufflepuff first-years pass before answering.

"We've got a few questions to ask you, but I want to make sure we can't be overheard." It's depressing that they still have to use war-time techniques even with Voldemort and most of the Death Eaters dead, but Harry knows she is right. He still has enemies at Hogwarts. And if he is truly working with Astoria and Tracey and all the others, then _they_ have new enemies now, too.

Astoria leads them past groups of three and four laying down blankets on the grassy hills for picnics, or tossing quaffles back and forth, and past the lake and Hagrid's hut. Near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, they approach a cluster of birch trees that appears to be a completely dense tangle of roots, branches, and shrubbery, but the girls slip through a narrow gap in the flora, and Harry follows.

Inside, there is enough cleared ground for the three of them to lounge comfortably, and Astoria pulls out her wand. She envelops the grove in a clear mist with a spell that Harry doesn't recognize, but assumes it is to keep them hidden and quiet. "My sister found this place in her third year," she says, and Harry supposes it's a sign of trust that she has shared it with him. She conjures a large blanket, and gestures them to sit down.

Astoria and Tracey both make sure the blanket is free of dirt, and their skirts are neatly spread out around them, as they sit. Harry supposes some things are universal with girls, and it's somewhat surprising to realize that though they've lived through dark times just like he has, they're still teenage girls, too.

"Thank you, " Astoria says without preamble, even as she watches him flop down on the ground ungracefully.

He pulls out another sandwich. He has forgotten how much he likes ham and cheese, how good food in general can taste. "For what?"

Astoria gestures around them. "For trusting us enough to come with us, for trusting us not to have poisoned the food."

He looks down at the crumbs on the handkerchief, all that remains of the four sandwiches. Oh. "Well, we made a deal, and I can't help you lot out if I'm dead, can I? And no offense, but I'm pretty sure I could take both of you in a fight."

The girls glance at each other, smirking. "Is that so? We might have to test that in a friendly duel one day."

Harry can't help but feel a stirring of his old competitive streak, and shrugs agreeably. "If you like."

Tracey smiles at him, a wary but genuine expression. "I look forward to it, Potter. But we should probably talk about what we came here to ask you. First, were Draco and Blaise at the potions lab this morning?"

"Yes," Harry says, surprised they know about that, though he probably shouldn't be. "Why?"

Astoria and Tracey share a satisfied look. "Draco has been a wreck these days, but he still commands a lot of respect in our House. We're trying to ask some of the Slytherins questions, but they won't answer honestly with Draco skulking around all the time, glowering at everyone. We had hoped Blaise would be able to convince him to work with Snape this morning, and keep him out of our hair for a little while so that some of our friends can get honest answers out of the younger Slytherins." That makes sense, in a convoluted, devious way, though Harry wonders which Slytherins are doing the actual questioning.

"You don't think Malfoy had anything to do with hurting Hermione, do you?"

Tracey says sharply, "Don't be stupid, Potter. You of all people should know he has everything to lose and nothing to gain from harming your friend, especially as she's a muggleborn."

Harry shrugs. That was his line of thinking, but he has been wrong often enough to learn to ignore his own reasoning. "He wasn't exactly eager to help this morning, is all I'm saying."

Astoria gives him a level look. "Surely you're aware of the implications of what you did for the Malfoys? Forcing them to give away their wealth to Muggles was cruel, but I also know you kept Draco from having a criminal record and Lucius from Azkaban, so I can accept it. No one ever gets second chances, but you gave him one, and he'd be a fool to squander it."

"And despite all evidence to the contrary, Draco is no fool," Tracey finishes, glancing at Astoria.

"Most of the time, he isn't," she agrees. "But we didn't come here to talk about him." She folds her hands neatly in her lap, and fixes him with a calm stare. "The main reason we asked you here is because we're having a lot of trouble digging around in Gryffindor. You lot are a close-knit group, and it's been difficult to infiltrate, with none of us being Gryffindors."

Harry sits up straight, and stares at each of them in turn. "You don't think a _Gryffindor_ would do this to Hermione?"

Astoria looks back at him blandly. "It was Gryffindors who were around Granger most of the time on the day of her attack, and in general since the term started. I saw how protective you've been of her. You wouldn't have let anyone else get close to her without paying very close attention."

He grimaces at his own naivety. By now, he should know better than to blindly trust anyone. "I suppose I shouldn't assume that every Gryffindor is a good person."

Tracey barks a short laugh, but she doesn't sound amused. "You've obviously never met Dustin Laforge, or you'd have already known that."

The name sounds vaguely familiar. It makes him think of his dormitory, for some reason. "Could he be behind the attack?"

The girls look thoughtful, but Tracey shakes her head after a moment's pause. "He's vile, and he hasn't made any secret of his hatred for Muggles and muggleborns, but he's in Gryffindor for a reason. He's bold and brash, and he would never do something as subtle as take the time to brew a deadly, uncommon poison."

Astoria nods. "Blaise thinks it's entirely an inside job, but I think someone from Slytherin or Ravenclaw made the poison, and got a Gryffindor to do the dirty work and administer it."

This is all getting too complicated, but nothing is more important than getting justice for Hermione. "It doesn't matter how many were involved. We'll punish them all."

They nod, like they expected nothing less, and perhaps they didn't. Astoria continues, "My point, though, was to ask if you could make some sort of a statement to the Gryffindors that Slytherins and purebloods aren't all evil, and hopefully make them a little more willing to talk to us? I think nothing less than the commandment of the Chosen One himself will be enough to sway them."

Harry rolls his eyes at her terminology but considers it, dropping his head back against the rough tree trunk behind him. "That would also work toward your goals, would it not?"

Astoria smiles sweetly, as if he's supposed to believe she hadn't thought of that. "Why, so it would. But you believe that now, don't you? That we're not evil just because of our House or because we're pureblooded?"

"Yeah, I suppose I do," he says, and is surprised to realize that this is nothing but the simple truth.

* * *

As he approaches Hermione's room in the Infirmary, he hears muffled voices, and opens the door to see Neville talking quietly with Ginny on the sofa. Ginny's shoulders are hunched, and she sits with her back to the door, staring at Hermione's still form. She doesn't turn around as he steps inside.

Neville stands to greet him, something bleak in his eyes as he offers Harry a plate of crackers and cheese that he has obviously swiped from the Great Hall, and just as obviously remains untouched by Ginny.

"No thanks, Neville," he says, dropping his coat over the back of an empty chair, and addresses Ginny's back. Knowing her, she probably thinks he has wasted the day away and forgotten about Hermione. "I left this morning to help prepare the ingredients for Hermione's antidote this morning with Snape," he says, intentionally leaving out Malfoy's role in the brewing. The last thing he needs it Ginny injuring Malfoy and rendering him unable to do his work.

If that soothes her in any way, he can't see any signs of it. Her hair is brushed, hanging straight and smooth down her back, and she has changed into clean clothes. He wonders if she did that because she knew Neville was coming to visit them. Not that it matters.

She turns her head, but still doesn't look at him fully. "Neville told me he saw you this afternoon. I suppose those two Slytherin girls were part of you 'helping Hermione', too?" she says icily, and he knows he must have a guilty look on her face, because Ginny looks triumphant. "Oh, but I'm sure that's very important too, fucking two of the _enemies _– it's just so _difficult_, leaving Hermione here _dying_, so that you can get your rocks off with those two whores-"

"Hermione isn't dying, Ginny," he says reflexively, trying not to think about the implications of her actually believing him shallow enough to fuck around while Hermione lies poisoned and comatose and the Infirmary.

"Oh yes, she is." Ginny twists around in her seat and meets his eyes with her own, red-rimmed ones. She walks slowly toward him. "Madame Pomfrey checked her this afternoon and said she's dying, that her will to live is the only thing that's kept her alive so far, and that she doesn't know how long she'll last. A week, maybe." All this is delivered in the same, deadened tone.

Something splinters behind Harry's Occlumency barriers. "No," he says, and his voice sounds strange to his own ears. "No, that isn't how it works. The stasis spell should keep her in the same state she was when Pomfrey put it on her."

Ginny's laugh is humorless. "You should know by now, there are no fairytale solutions. Even with magic. Anyway, she _is_ in the same state. Dying!" Her voice cracks on the last word, and Neville, standing between the two of them and looking uncomfortable, moves to put his arm around her, but she waves him away.

Instead, he turns to Harry and grasps his shoulder. "I'm going to go work in the greenhouse, but I am here whenever you need me." Harry has never seen him look so still and serious. And old. Harry nods stiffly, not sure he can speak normally, and Neville slips out of the room.

All he can think, on a repeating loop, is that this was not in the plan – it isn't remotely fair. Harry has planned, and acted instead of reacted, talked to people when he would much rather curl up into a dark hole and die, worked with people he intensely dislikes, and then. Then. Suddenly the one thing that he has been clinging to – that he has _time_ to help Hermione, to figure this out – is stolen from him?

For a moment, he doubts – really doubts, that he can set thing to right. That he can ever have his best friend back.

He doesn't remember dropping, but suddenly he is kneeling on the floor, staring at the patterns and swirls that centuries of wear have made in the polished stone. He hasn't felt this sickeningly hopeless since he witnessed Ron's murder. He tries to fill himself with rage, and anger, so that he will have the willpower to fight on, but the strength leaks away, and the drowning sensation of despair almost overtakes him completely.

A strange noise makes him look up, and sees that Ginny is shaking and whimpering softly, staring blankly over his head, as if she has just now realized the implications of her own words.

He rises slowly. If he can't be strong for himself, he will be strong for her. "Ginny," he whispers, stopping in front of her. "Ginny," he says in a normal tone, and her eyes finally snap to him. "We're going to figure this out."

He is making all this up as he goes along; he has _no idea_ what they should do, but he can't think about that right now. All he can focus on is what Ginny needs, or he might start screaming and never stop. "We're going to find out who did this to Hermione. I've been trying, and I've got some people helping me, and they're just going to have to work faster." He swallows. "That's all there is to it."

Ginny opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She licks her lips and tries again. "And if we can't find the antidote in time?" Her voice is hoarse.

He meets her eyes and tries to convey absolute confidence in them. "We will do whatever it takes to get the antidote in time." For a long moment, he just looks down at her, how drawn, pale, and miserable she is. She is biting her bottom lip to stop its trembling.

Suddenly, it seems so stupid and pompous and utterly _petty_ that he has kept her from knowledge of how he is helping Hermione.

"We will save Hermione," he says, with certainty in his voice that he doesn't feel. "But Ginny… I need you." He gestures uselessly with his hands, trying somehow to articulate the loss he feels without her support, even when she is at her worst. "I'm sorry for excluding you. I need you by my side. I always have." He swallows, listening to himself voice feelings he thought he had finally tucked away forever.

There is another pause then, different and somehow tense with waiting, and Harry doesn't know what it means.

So slowly that he thinks he is imagining the movement at first, Ginny steps toward him, and presses herself against him from cheek to thighs. The top of her head bumps his chin, and she whispers something into his chest. "What?" he says, feeling like he has to whisper or else he will break this wonderful illusion, this brief daydream in the midst of the nightmare, where Ginny might not hate him.

She reaches out blindly and fumbles for Hermione's sheet-covered foot on the hospital bed, squeezing it. "We'll save her, together," she says, tightening her grip his waist. He nods, and wraps his arms slowly around her, still afraid he will scare her away.

A part of himself, a tiny, sputtering hope that he thought long since extinguished completely, flickers, and he feels more right than he has felt since going on the hunt for the Horcruxes. As they stand in their tight embrace, he tries to figure out how can he find the antidote for Hermione as soon as possible, but his thoughts keep coming back to what he told Ginny, speaking words that he didn't realize were true until they were leaving his mouth.

_I have always needed her, and I always will._


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

_"Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere."  
_

_-Martin Luther King, Jr._

It is a tense, heavy silence that greets Harry as he steps into a disused classroom on the fourth floor. Luna, Neville, Blaise, Tracey and Astoria look up, but no one says anything as he slides into an upholstered chair near Luna. Ginny, pale but determined, hesitates in the doorway before she finally shuts the door behind her and sits down on a desk on Luna's other side.

Everyone looks at him with varying mixtures of impatience and curiosity, though Harry sees the Slytherins giving Ginny considering looks as well. There is no need, no _time_ for social niceties like introductions or explanations, though.

"Alright." Harry tries to put some emotion into his voice, but he is barely holding himself back from giving up as it is. "Luna, Neville, I asked you here because I trust you with my life, but much more importantly, with Hermione's." This is the simple truth, and surely they already know it, but Luna gives him a blinding smile and Neville sits up straighter in his seat and nods seriously.

"And you," he nods at the three Slytherins, sitting side by side on the long desk at the front. "Well, I don't know you very well at all, I'll grant you, but I trust you to honor the Unbreakable Vow you swore, and I trust your competence to find who did this to her." There is no visible response to this, so he takes a deep, calming breath to distance himself from his emotions before he continues.

"You all know that someone, or some people, poisoned Hermione last week. But the stasis spell isn't working for some reason, so Hermione… she's…dying. Rapidly." Tracey's eyes widen slightly, but that's the only acknowledgement he receives from anyone.

He clears his throat. "So what I need-" Why are his hands shaking? He looks down at them in surprise.

A soft hand reaches over to squeeze his own gently, and Harry looks up to see Luna peering at him thoughtfully. "What do you need us to do, Harry?" she asks, and Harry nods gratefully. Of course they will help him. If he can't trust anyone else, he can trust them.

"We have to find the antidote, though it will probably mean helping Draco Malfoy make it." Neville jerks, and Ginny just closes her eyes for a long moment, clutching the edge of the desk, before nodding.

The Slytherins are watching them with interest plain in their eyes, but none of them say a word. Harry turns to them, to Astoria, really, and braces himself. "I know we'll have a much better chance if we can find the person who did this. So I need you three to do _whatever_ it takes to find them. I don't care if we need to use Filch's dungeon equipment, we _will_ find out what poison they used to hurt Hermione."

Blaise, who looks like a thousand thoughts are running across his mind, opens his mouth, but Harry cuts him off. He only has time for the essentials. "At _any_ cost, Zabini. If you need money, I have plenty. I have enough political power to get you off of any charges or accusations. I promise to back all of you up. I just need you do this for me, and begin as quickly as possible." Zabini shuts his mouth and nods.

Tracey reaches out to touch his knee with an almost gentleness, but a low sound from Ginny prompts her to pull back. "We need you to talk to the Gryffindors," she reminds him, looking only at him. "If you do that, our way will be cleared."

Right, use his non-existent leadership skills to convince his fellow Gryffindors to talk to the "Slytherin scum," in a way that seems natural and doesn't put the Gryffindor who has hurt Hermione on guard. Is that even possible? He will just have to figure it out.

"Okay," he says, rising. "Yes, okay, I'll do it tomorrow morning before most of them have gone down for breakfast." He gestures to Astoria. He needs the fiercest of his three Slytherins for this likely unpleasant task. "I need you to take me to Malfoy, now, though, Astoria. I want to talk to him myself." Blaise and Tracey each open their mouths as if to protest this idea, but the shorter girl shoots them both venomous looks and walks over to Harry calmly.

"No time to waste, then. Let's go, Potter."

* * *

If he hadn't known it is impossible, he would swear Astoria is getting _nervous_ as she leads him to the dungeons. He has paused only to grab his Cloak and tries to step quietly in her wake as she opens the hidden wall and leads him into the cool, clammy Slytherin Common Room. It is almost midnight, but Astoria assured him that Malfoy would be awake, and on the odd chance that he is not, she'll "take care of it."

The room is just as he remembers from his second year, dark and forest green, with formal high backed chairs, green velvet on most open surfaces, and flickering candles on wall sconces. Though his last visit he had sneaked in over winter break, the room isn't much more crowded than that had been then. Of course, many Slytherins have left Hogwarts for good, too frightened to return, at Durmstrang, or perhaps dead.

Astoria raises her chin, shares inscrutable glances with several students talking quietly in small groups, and then proceeds down the stairs toward what must be the boys' side as if she has every right to. Darting a quick glance to make sure no one has followed her, she presses open the first door on the right when they reach the lower level.

The dormitory is even more dimly lit than the rest of the Slytherin quarters and unoccupied except for Draco Malfoy, lit only by a ball of soft white light as he hunches over a writing desk ball and flips through a heavy book with one hand and takes notes with the other. Malfoy's head snaps up and he drops the quill when they cross the threshold, and Harry isn't sure if he has some sort of detection spell in force or he is just that jumpy.

"Storie," he says, with a catch in his voice that is somehow both exasperated and tense with emotion. He rises fluidly from his chair and walks toward her, reaching out as if to touch her face before drawing back. "We've talked about this, I thought we'd agreed-"

Astoria's face tightens, but she says evenly, "Not now, Draco." She gestures exactly at Harry, though he is sure he is being as quiet as humanly possible. Malfoy follows the movement with a suspicious eye, so Harry sighs and pulls the Cloak off, wand in hand, to face Malfoy's startled gaze.

"For fuck's sake, Astoria, what the hell were you thinking, bringing _him_ down here?" He spins and reaches for his wand, a heavy, dark rod lying next to his notebook, but Harry's is already pointed at Malfoy's back.

"I just want to talk to you, Malfoy."

Malfoy's shoulders slump as he turns back around, his eyes tired. He looks older than his 18 years, but Harry knows that he does, as well. War does that. "Oh yeah? And by that I suppose you mean you're here to either threaten information out of me, or else you're already convinced that I poisoned Granger and you want revenge. Gods, Potter, can't you just leave me alone?"

Harry does his best to ignore Malfoy's words. As much as he'd like to hit someone right now, he doesn't need Malfoy hating him any more than he already does. "No, actually. I need you to find the antidote to Hermione's poison as fast as possible, Malfoy."

Malfoy grimaces. "You already know I'm working on it. It'll take two weeks, three tops," he says dully.

Harry tightens his grip on his wand and advances on Malfoy, who of course has no way of knowing the direness of situation but is infuriating all the same. Astoria reaches out and tugs him back, and Draco stares at her hand on Harry's forearm as if it's a black adder.

"Draco," she says, quietly but intently, and steps fully between them. Her normally stoic expression has been replaced by something tender, and she squeezes his hands as she looks up at him. "We don't have three weeks. We have perhaps a little more than three days."

For a moment, he just stares down at her bright, pleading eyes in a mixture of surprise and resentment. Finally, he wrenches his gaze away and meets Harry's eyes over Astoria's head. "And then we'll be even, Potter?" he asks without expression. "And you won't blackmail me with your ability to testify against me in the future, and we can go on the rest of our lives pretending the other doesn't exist?"

Every time Harry has seen Malfoy since the Battle, a stream of conflicting impressions and thoughts confront him. It is hard to reconcile in his head, but somehow the boy he'd saved from Fiendfyre mere months ago is the same one who had once pretended to be a Dementor to terrify him and later had been ready to curse him within an inch of his life after landing his father in prison. Yet he is also a boy who hadn't been able to bring himself to kill Dumbledore, even though he probably believed the failure would forfeit his own life, and who also had a mother who loved him enough to betray all her ideals for him.

"I'll do you one better," he says, thinking fast. "Save Hermione, and I'll give you your wand back."

He had forgotten he still has Draco's wand until he saw Draco reach for his new one. The original is somewhere at the bottom of Harry's school trunk, left there after repairing his own holly one a few weeks after Ron died, and long since pushed out of his head. But of course, Malfoy would remember he has it and probably has never stopped resenting him for taking it.

"And then I won't ever bother you again, so long as you don't hurt me or anyone I love."

Malfoy just stares at him for a minute, as if trying to see if Harry is putting him on. Finally, he bows his head and closes his eyes, fingers twitching rapidly as he thinks. Growing impatient, Harry opens his mouth to prod him, but Astoria darts a quick quelling look at him, expression telling him wordlessly to be patient.

"Alright," Malfoy says, looking around at both of them. "But I'll need all the help you can give me, to get the antidote created as quickly as possible."

Harry almost slumps onto the floor in relief, and Astoria smiles up at Malfoy beatifically.

"Anything that's mine to give, Malfoy. Just tell me what you need."

* * *

What Malfoy needs, it turns out, are boxes upon boxes of simple potions bases that he orders from the Apothecary, with enough promised Galleons to rouse the storekeeper out into his own laboratory on a weekend, as well as several prepared ingredients and about a dozen more top-quality self-stirring cauldrons.

Harry's help with the actual potions-making, Malfoy assures him in a voice that is scathing before a warning look from Astoria tones it down, is most assuredly neither desired nor necessary. Malfoy will begin work in the classroom with Snape once the Potions ingredients are delivered, and work non-stop for as long as he is able until he has an antidote that works.

After all the orders are complete and Malfoy claims that Merlin himself wouldn't be able to get everything into the castle faster than the morning, Astoria walks Harry to the entrance again. Giving him a secret smirk, she opens the hidden passageway for him before looking around as if she's forgotten something, and hurries back, to the girls' side this time.

Thus freed, Harry continues on alone to the Hospital Wing, where he sent Neville to accompany Ginny, with strict instructions not to leave her alone there for any reason.

When he arrives, however, Ginny is shouting at Madame Pomfrey, and two middle-aged men in white robes are looking uncertainly between the two women, while Hermione, limbs ghostly white and face pinched, lies on a levitating stretcher between them.

"Harry!" Ginny says wildly when she sees him, reaching out as if he'll be able to fix this with a few words. "_Tell_ her, tell Madame Pomfrey that we need Hermione _here_ to test antidotes on her. If they take her away and Malfoy finds something that will work, it could take _hours_ to get to her, and that's time we don't have!"

Harry gently steps in front of the nurse, realizing that he tops her by two or three inches now. Strange, he has always thought of her as able to overpower him. He meets her eyes and speaks calmly, as one adult to the other. "Madame Pomfrey, the Healers can't do what Malfoy can, isn't that right? It's not healing Hermione needs, it's an _antidote_, and Snape and Malfoy working together are the best chance she has."

Pomfrey looks conflicted, mouth opening and closing as if she can't decide how to respond, but suddenly her eyes light up at the sound of someone coming up behind him. "Headmistress!" she says in relief as McGonagall approaches, led by Neville. She steps back and gestures helplessly to Harry and Ginny. "Please, handle this."

As Neville reaches them, he pauses to say quickly but quietly in his ear, "Sorry for leaving Ginny, but I thought McGonagall would be the best chance we had to stop this."

Harry nods, and McGonagall finally reaches them as fast as her cane will allow, managing to look dignified despite being wrapped in a tartan dressing robe. She surveys the scene, and barks, "Potter. Please walk with me."

Harry opens his mouth and closes it again, trying to decide what to do. McGonagall doesn't look at all surprised at the scene, so she probably knew about it, might have even planned it.

Finally, he points his wand at the two mediwizards, who flinch back, and says with all the authority he can muster, "Don't leave this room until I come back, or you'll regret it."

Leaving them cowering in his wake, he follows the Headmistress down the hall. When they are out of eavesdropping range, she says sharply, "Threatening St. Mungo's staff is grossly inappropriate, Potter."

"I'll do a lot more than that to protect Hermione's life, Headmistress."

She stops to face him, face softening. A little. "Harry, I had always planned to allow you to attend Ms. Granger at St. Mungo's for as long and as often as you need. I know Professor Snape and Draco Malfoy are working on an antidote, or at least a stop-gap for Ms. Granger's affliction, and they will be allowed to visit St. Mungo's without restriction as well. And St. Mungo's staff may be able to come up with something that the two of them have not and would not have thought of."

"Professor," Harry says, "with respect, I know how unlikely that is." Malfoy had told him how most people poisoned either hired a Potions Master to cure them, or they died. St Mungo's staff were skilled in healing injuries and disease, not in curing intentional, lethal poisoning that could take thousands of forms.

The Headmistress starts walking again, not saying anything for several steps, before she says softly. "Harry, I will not try to pretend that I understand how much this must hurt you, though I know your grief is great. But the tragic reality is that Ms. Granger has a very real possibility of dying within days." Her voice trembles, but she continues in a strong tone. "I would give anything to change that fact, but I do not know how. But if Ms. Granger does die, I promise you that I will give you anything you need to ensure that she receives justice for this heinous crime."

She takes another dozen paces before saying quietly, "I don't imagine you have any idea how difficult it was to convince the Ministry to open Hogwarts again. It was not certain until August that it would be allowed, and permission was granted under extremely specific stipulations."

She stops again and places a hand on each of his shoulders, and peers down at him. "Harry, I must consider the well-being of every single student at this school, with every decision I make in my capacity of Headmistress. If word reaches the Ministry that a student has died on Hogwarts grounds, less than a month after re-opening, Hogwarts may not be operational again in your lifetime…certainly not in mine. As many as half the students here may transfer to Durmstrang, where teenagers are still taught the Dark Arts by former murderers and rapists. I hope you understand, Harry, that I will fight for my students' futures with ever fiber I have in me."

Harry nods. "I do, Professor." It disgusts him, that politics would require his best friend's life, but that is not really McGonagall's fault. He will have to fight that battle later. For now, he squares his shoulders and meets his headmistress's eyes levelly. "But I've never been very good at being rational when my friends' lives are on the line. I guess theoretically I should value hundreds of lives more than Hermione Granger's, but I _don't_. I'm sorry, but I will fight _anyone_ who stands in my way of giving her the best chance she has to live."

McGonagall stiffens, and he can see her weighing the possibility of him talking to the press, using his political power as revenge for standing in the way of Hermione's survival, but finally, her shoulders sag ever so slightly. "Kingsley will just have to keep things quiet at the Ministry for a while longer," she says with a sigh. "I will prepare one of the unused rooms in the dungeons for Ms. Granger, and conceal it from all who do not know the password. She must be seen entering St. Mungo's, but I will have her removed and in this room within a few hours."

Hermione is still dying, but Harry feels as if one of the weights that has been burdening has been lifted. "Thank you, Professor," he says sincerely. Another small battle won. "If that's all, please excuse me, I need to check on Ginny." Without another word, he turns back to everyone else, and sees Neville and Madame Pomfrey talking quietly while Ginny stands with Hermione's prone form, brushing the brunette's hair out of her face with a gentle hand.

She stills when he approaches her, watching his face warily as if she is afraid of what he will say. Keeping his voice low, he tells her, "McGonagall is going to have Hermione moved secretly to the dungeons. It'll take a few hours, though, so there's no point in staying here. I'm taking you to get you something to eat." She protests, of course, but he can see she is so relieved that Hermione won't be taken from them that her resistance is half-hearted at best. He leads her down to the kitchens, planning on asking the elves for much more food than they need so that they won't need to come down again for a while. He knows they won't be getting much sleep over the next few days, and they'll need energy to stay alert and as effective as possible. Hermione's life depends on it.

His next course of action, helping as much as he can with his Pureblood's efforts to find the almost-murderer, will have to wait at least long enough to make sure Ginny won't collapse from hunger and exhaustion. No matter what else, he will not abandon her again.

As they walk, he wraps his arm around her shoulders just like he used to when they were dating, completely without thinking, but instead of pulling away, she leans her head heavily against his upper arm. Neither of them say anything as they prepare for the coming morning, but then again, no words are necessary.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

_"Hope is the feeling we have that the feeling we have is not permanent." _

_-Mignon McLaughlin_

An hour later, Harry and Ginny leave the kitchens with baskets of sandwiches, fruits, and pastries, along with well wishes for "Miss Hermy," from the house elves, who have apparently forgiven Harry's friend for her SPEW crusade a few years past.

Harry pushes open the door to the nearest empty dungeon classroom, prepared to wait there until McGonagall moves Hermione down here. Ginny follows silently. She still looks pale and tense, but at least a bit less likely to faint on her feet since Harry convinced her that they were not leaving the kitchen until she finished her sandwich.

Dropping her basket with a thud on the nearest desk, Ginny wrinkles her nose as she turns about the classroom. "I bet this room hasn't been used in a decade, and it still smells of burnt newt."

Harry grunts. He hates how much time they have had to spend in the dungeons; the smell of Potions doesn't exactly bring back good memories for him, either.

He takes a seat on the nearest table, pulling up his knees as he thinks. He has been in an odd state of mind since learning the direness of Hermione's situation, a curiously disconnected feeling that gives him the niggling sensation that he has forgotten something important, hovering somewhere just inside his Occlumency walls.

Ginny paces back and forth in front of him with a potions text book grabbed from one of the dusty shelves held up in front of her. The odds of the poison being in a mainstream instruction manual seem laughably far-fetched, but Harry can sympathize with the desire to do _something._

Ginny shakes her head as she flips the pages of the old manual, and Harry's eyes are drawn to the glitter of her hair in the dim light of the classroom, and he jerks. It's Ron he's forgotten; he hasn't thought of his best friend in hours. A few days ago, he'd have said that wouldn't be possible.

Ginny catches the movement and turns to him abruptly, setting the book down with its binding split open as she peers at him with dark, shadowed eyes. "What do you think he'd do if _he_ were here?" He has forgotten that trick she has of seeming to read his mind sometimes, an ability that only Hermione could ever get close to replicating.

"Go mental," he says automatically. "You know how much he loved her, it would tear him apart to see her like that. He'd probably threaten everyone up to and including the Queen herself to try to cure her."

"I'm going to do a lot more than threaten," she growls, and he tenses, preparing himself to deal with the terrifying person Ginny sometimes becomes since Ron's death, but she isn't drawn tightly enough, and he relaxes. A hair.

She leans against the edge of the table next to him, seemingly too on edge to sit down fully. "That's how you're acting, too," she says quietly, and it takes him a second to register what she said.

"What, mental?" He thinks she's a fine one to talk, but out of consideration for their tentative reconciliation, he doesn't say that thought aloud.

She scowls. "Forget it."

Harry shrugs and returns to contemplating his knees. Just when he thinks he almost understands Ginny, he realizes anew that the gap between them is not a river, but an ocean. Once Hermione is better, he will focus on bridging the chasm between them. Right now, though, he is too tired. Giving into the inevitable, he closes his eyes and tries to relax his body enough to have a bit of a nap.

Without warning, Ginny speaks again. "Harry, once Hermione…gets _better_," she begins, with only a slight quiver in her voice, "will we ever be normal again?"

"Dunno," Harry says, his eyes still closed. "How can a world without my best mate ever be normal?" A bolt of pain rips through him, and trying desperately to change the subject off of Ron, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. "You don't seem as angry anymore."

_That's_ a dangerous topic too, but Ginny just scrubs at her eyes. "I'm too tired to be angry," she says. "All I can think about right now is Hermione, and figuring out who did this to her. I'll have plenty of energy for revenge once that's taken care of."

Harry nods and looks away, and the silence between them expands. It isn't tense or awkward, really, but it's not exactly comfortable, either.

He doesn't know how long he dozes off before Ginny shakes him awake to point at a silver cat sitting on the desk next to him, who begins speaking with McGonagall's voice once it has Harry's attention. "Miss Granger has been relocated to the room at the very end of the hallway past the main Potions classroom. Three taps of your wand and the password 'disillusionment' will give you access. Godspeed."

* * *

When they enter the small room that was evidently once used for storage, Malfoy is already there, a dragonskin notebook in his hand as he scrutinizes Hermione with a critical eye. He barely glances at the two Gryffindors when they enter.

Beside him, Ginny stiffens at Malfoy's presence, and Harry takes hold of her arm and guides her firmly to the other side of the hospital bed. They are quiet for a moment as they stare down at Hermione. She seems even more frail and insubstantial, and her chest barely moves as she breathes.

"Is there anything that I can help you with, Malfoy?" Harry says in the most cordial tone he can manage, once he has reassured himself that Hermione is still alive.

"No," Malfoy says shortly, jotting something down in his book. "I'm just...trying to see if there are any hints of the poison's components in Granger's symptoms. Efficiency is the key with limited time; one could argue that more common potions bases are more likely, but the counterargument is that the type of person who would poison someone for political reasons in a relatively public way might also have the money and skill to brew much more exotic poisons…" He looks sharply at Harry, and frowns, as if he has forgotten who he is talking to.

Harry tries to keep his expression neutral. _Yes, think of her as a puzzle to solve_, he wishes fervently._ Let it eat at you until you figure out the solution. Don't stop to think who she is, that she's a Mudblood, she's Granger, and you hate her._

Shoving his quill and notebook into his book bag, Malfoy finally snaps, "I need to talk with Snape before I start working," and stalks out the door without waiting for a response.

Harry looks at Ginny, who slowly relaxes at Malfoy's departure, and makes herself comfortable in the chair closest to the bed. "You can't attack him," Harry tells her sternly. "He's likely our best hope, and I made a deal that we would leave him alone, once he cures Hermione."

She shrugs and reaches out to take Hermione's hand. "There's just something about him that always makes my blood boil," she says, not sounding particularly concerned about his promise.

Harry sighs and sits down next to her. "Believe me, I know," he says. "But this is for Hermione's life, alright?"

She huffs, but acquiesces. "Not much else would be worth putting up with him."

After a few minutes she pulls back from Hermione, leaning against him as she closes her eyes. He tries not to think about how close they are sitting, but it's difficult, when they are alone and the anger and cutting remarks seem to be washed away, at least for the moment.

He concentrates on keeping his attention on Hermione's face, following the line of her eyebrows down to her dark lashes past the rise of her nose and to her lips, slightly parted as she slips. Eventually, he slips into a light, uneasy sleep, Ginny pressed against his side and his eyes and thoughts on Hermione.

"Okay," Harry says reluctantly when he checks his watch for the twentieth time a few hours later, and disentangles his arm from Ginny. "I've got to go up and do my speech to the Gryffindors before they all head down for breakfast."

Ginny grimaces, shifting in her seat. "I hope it'll do some good," she says, but she doesn't sound hopeful. Neither is Harry, for that matter, but it can't hurt. Probably.

He rises to show himself out the door, but to his surprise, Ginny stands too. He turns to face her, and she looks up at him uncertainly for a moment, biting her lip. "I'd like to…talk about some things, after Hermione is better."

"…Okay," Harry says, baffled, after she doesn't elaborate. She nods once, jerkily, and Harry turns to go, but quick as a snitch, she darts forward and kisses him softly on the cheek, just how Hermione used to.

"For luck," she says, her expression blank, and turns to sit down again.

After a moment, Harry shakes himself out of his stupor and makes his way up to the Gryffindor Common Room, his mind scattering in a thousand directions. There is one overarching theme, though, in his rambling thoughts.

_Women are very, very confusing._

_

* * *

_The common room is filling with half-awake students when Harry steps through the portrait hole. Things look relatively normal, for Hogwarts at least, girls performing straightening charms on their blouses and skirts as they walk down the stairs, and boys chuckling at each other, practicing duels with harmless spells if they are young, or watching the older girls, if they are upper years.

Suddenly, Neville is at his side, clasping him on the shoulder as he leads him to an unoccupied table near the portrait hole. "You're just in time; most of the students are awake but haven't gone down yet. Best of luck, mate," he says, gesturing for Harry to step up.

Harry nods, fights down a spot of nervousness –_ nervousness! He has killed Voldemort, for god's sake, and now a little public speaking has him trembly_ – and uses Neville's shoulder to push himself up.

A hush spreads over the room as the other students notice him standing there. Harry clears his throat, feeling awkward and exposed as every eye watches him. He spots most of the Gryffindors he knows somewhat well, though he can't find Hermione's two roommates, and figures Lavender and Parvati are still upstairs doing their makeup, or whatever it is those two get up to.

"I just want to say a few things," he says, willing his voice to be firm. "This is important; it'll only take a few minutes." He looks around, but no one seems ready to walk out on him. He takes a deep breath.

"Okay. Well…what I want you to remember is that we didn't beat Voldemort just because of, well, me, or just because of Gryffindors. Professor Snape, who sacrificed his life for our cause and put himself in mortal danger every time he pretended to be Voldemort's spy, and Draco Malfoy's mother, who lied to Voldemort's face, had probably the two most critical roles in the whole thing, except for Professor Dumbledore himself."

No one tries to interrupt his horrible, meandering speech, so he presses on. "And if the war had gone on for longer, we'd have recruited people from all the houses to help us, in whatever way they were willing, as well as many adults as we could.

"My point is, Slytherins are _not_ our enemies, nor are the children of Death Eaters. Our enemies should be those who support murder, rape, cruelty and prejudice, not, say, a girl who happens to be sorted into Slytherin because she has an ambition to save the world, or a boy whose father was a Death Eater."

He looks around and sees no fidgeting, even among the tiny first years. "Someone much wiser – and better at speeches – than I am once told me that it is our actions that define us, not who we happen to be born."

He tries to project his conviction into his voice. "I challenge all of you to act like true Gryffindors from now on, with bravery and boldness, yes, but also with a sense of decency, justice and fairness for _everyone_, for Muggleborns and purebloods, for the wealthy and the poor. And above all else, even for Slytherins."

"Thank you for listening." He steps off the table to a heavy silence, until Neville steps forward, Seamus right behind him, and applaud loudly into the stillness. After a moment, Dean rises, too, as far away as it is possible to be from the other two boys, but still claps as loudly as the rest, and slowly the common rooms fills with cheers and scattered applause, and best of all, thoughtful, approving nods.

He can't help but smiling a little. His troubles are far from over, but he is one step closer to getting his best friend back.


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

_"Never underestimate the power of jealousy and the power of envy to destroy."_

_-Oliver Stone_

As he is leaving the Gryffindor Common Room, Tracey and Blaise appear, quite literally, from thin air, pulling off his invisibility cloak without warning. The surprise almost makes him fall down a flight of stairs, and he flails ineffectually at the edge of the top stair until Blaise snorts and pulls him back by his collar.

"Sorry, Potter," Tracey says as she starts down the staircase ahead of him, though she is obviously trying not to smile. "Graceful in the air, and all the coordination of a hippogriff on the ground."

Harry rolls his eyes, and follows her. Carefully. "I've just told all the Gryffindors to give Slytherins a chance, Davis, and you repay me by stealing my Cloak?"

"Why," Tracey asks, turning to him with wide-eyed innocence as she hands him back his cloak. "Would you have let us listen in if we'd asked nicely?"

"Not a chance in hell," Harry says, honestly a little embarrassed that they heard his speech, which had definitely been meant for Gryffindor ears alone.

Tracey nods. "Well, there you go," she says, as if that settles the matter. A pause, then she asks, "Are you angry with us for eavesdropping? I assure you, it was a simple crime of opportunity – and sheer curiosity - on our part, nothing malicious intended."

Harry shakes his head, trying for a laugh that falls far short. "The only thing in the entire universe I care about right now is Hermione. And Ginny," he adds unexpectedly, and the words are out of his mouth before he can process them. "How'd you get in, anyway?" Harry says.

"Oh," Tracey glances at Blaise, who purposely avoids eye contact with either of them as he walks, and mirth dances in her eyes. "Let's just say that McClaggan boy thinks our Blaise is…'dishy.' You wouldn't _believe_ what bit of flirting and smiling gets him."

Blaise grimaces, and Harry has a difficult time imagining the sarcastic, stoic boy charming his way out of anything.

"Of course, when _I _try his techniques, boys always just look nervous..." Tracey muses.

Harry just snorts and keeps walking, reasonably certain that she will eventually come out with whatever they have for ambushing him. They reach a landing and fall in step on either side of him, and Harry imagines how strange it must look to anyone who knows him even remotely, to see him wandering Hogwarts with two Slytherins.

But a few minutes later, with nothing of consequence said, a young girl with a Slytherin crest on her robes comes running up to Tracey. "I've got a bite," she says softly, completely ignoring Harry.

At Tracey's nod, the girl darts back down the corridor. Tracey glances at Blaise, who grunts in assent. "We've got to go handle this," she says to Harry. "They'll slip away quickly if we make them wait too long, doubly fast if they see you."

"A Gryffindor?" Harry asks her.

She shrugs. "Probably. Seems like your speech may already be working."

Harry has mixed feeling about this. He's glad he might have accomplished something, of course, but confirmation that Hermione's attacker could very well be a Gryffindor makes his heart sink.

"I'll be with Hermione in the dungeons." He tells them how to find the room, and they look almost surprised before rushing off, promising to let him know what they find out as soon as they can.

He walks back slowly, hesitating outside the Great Hall before deciding that he can't handle any crowds right now, even for the sake of getting Ginny some hot food. He hasn't quite reached Hermione's room when he is found by Astoria, who walks briskly around the corner, obviously looking for someone, and sighs in audible relief when she sees him. "Potter, come with me, quickly!"

He jumps, but immediately follows as she leads him back up the stairs and out the nearest door outside, toward the castle's gates, and ignores his attempts to ask her what they are doing. Finally, as they get closer to the iron fence, he can see Tracey and Blaise, their backs to the castle as they face a third person, who is standing just outside the gates.

It is Parvati Patil.

Harry's heart starts thudding, and he reaches for his wand without thinking. "No," Astoria says urgently, pulling his hand down, and slowing to a more naturally-paced walk. "It's not what you think. Not quite," she says grimly.

Harry bites down both his impatience and his temper, but he can't stop glowering at Parvati when he gets close enough to see her features. Somewhere in the back of his head, he finally realizes what has looked so different about her this year. She has a small red dot on her forehead, and she is wearing a cluster of red and gold bangles, necklaces, and dangling earrings. He has never seen her look so…exotic. Foreign.

"Listen, I didn't want Hermione to get hurt," she is saying desperately, as Harry and Astoria approach. "If I'd had any idea what Lavender would do, I'd have tried to stop her. But you have to understand… Lavender is my _best friend_, and Hermione has always been just a roommate, really. "

Harry fights down a surge of rage at the airheaded girl's uncaring dismissal of his best friend, but stills when Astoria stamps down on his foot. "Why, Parvati?" he manages in a strangled tone.

She turns to him, and he is coldly pleased to see that she cannot meet his eyes. "When Ron died, Lavender… went a little crazy. She was so infatuated with him, and he dumped her cold, but she was – _is_ - convinced herself that Hermione stole him away from her, and if he'd stayed with her, he'd be alive today."

It was _Lavender_? Harry remembers her wailing and shivering in their grief class, and closes his eyes. Should he have expected this? He'd been so distracted then, so caught up in his own thoughts. Selfishly.

Parvati wrings her hands and stares around at all of them worriedly. "When she realized yesterday the full extent of what she'd done, how Hermione might actually _die_ because of her, well, she got scared and ran away. And no, I won't tell you where she went. But I swear on my family's honor that she had no idea how dangerous it would be. None at all."

Harry opens his mouth to say something – he isn't quite sure what will properly convey _that isn't good enough_ - but Astoria speaks first. "That's fine, Patil," she says, and Harry glares at her in outrage. "Just tell us, who _did_ brew the poison?"

Parvati shrugs, looking remarkably unconcerned about Hermione's health. "Lavender never knew. She said it looked like a boy's handwriting, though. He – or she, Lav could've been wrong, I suppose – wrote to her on enchanted parchment, told her where to find the potion and to slip it into Hermione's food at one of the meals."

Parvati glances at him and seems to sense his hold on his anger loosening. "Alright," she says, taking a few inadvertent steps backward. "That's everything I know about Hermione's poisoning. I'm leaving now. I'm through with Dark Lords and this school and this entire stupid country. Don't expect to hear from me again."

She raises her wand, and Harry lurches forward, not sure if he wants to yell at her or shake some sense into her or just scream at the sky, but she spins around and disapparates with a crack before he can move, leaving him and the three Slytherins standing there silently, staring at the ground where the first piece of their puzzle had stood.

Astoria finally breaks the silence. "That was...unexpected," she says mildly, turning back to the castle. "But not really surprising now that we know the context, though I'm obviously unhappy we still don't know what the poison was, or who brewed it."

"It was someone who was observant enough to have at least a decent idea of how Brown felt about-" Tracey cuts her eyes to Harry. "Ronald Weasley."

Harry sighs. _Oh Ron, and you had no idea_, he thinks. For his best mate, Lavender had never been anything more than a pretty bird to "practice" on, with the added benefit of making Hermione jealous. As oblivious as Ron had always been about his own feelings, the idea that Lavender might feel something more than he felt for her, would never have even crossed his mind.

"Any chance of getting either of them back? Especially Lavender," Harry asks, without much hope.

Astoria grimaces. "Not without launching an international manhunt that probably wouldn't be successful, and she knows it. The only way we could get her to talk was meeting her here on the edge of grounds. She's likely out of the country by now, and it's simple to make yourself completely untraceable internationally."

"McGonagall wouldn't approve of alerting the authorities, anyway, "Harry says."Told me she's keeping Hogwarts open by a hair, and any problems leaking to the Ministry would mean the school closed for years."

Astoria gives him an unreadable look. "We can talk about politics later, when we've cured Granger," she says, and Harry's will strengthens at the certainty with which she says this. "For now, we need to figure out who had the means and motive to arrange this, as well as the foresight to use Brown to do the dirty work."

"Okay," Harry says dully as they reach the entrance of the castle, and he is hit again with the sinking realization that though they have accomplished _something_, it could very well not be fast enough for Hermione.

"Go," Astoria shoos him toward the staircase down into the depths of the castle. "I can tell you're thinking about Granger. And let Draco know what we found out, will you? It can't hurt. And we'll work on finding out who gave Brown her instructions." He nods, and turns to leave them.

"Oh, and Potter?" He stops and turns back around. Astoria is looking at him with a curiously light expression on her face. "Tracey and Blaise told me about your speech. 'Decency, justice and fairness for everyone, even Slytherins?'' Her lips quirk as if she's going to make fun of him, but she gives him a quick, genuine smile instead.

"Thank you," she says quietly, and turns to leave with Blaise and Tracey.

* * *

Before he rejoins Ginny and Hermione, Harry knocks on the door to the potions laboratory, forcing himself to be patient as Malfoy's irked voice says, "Enter," a good thirty seconds later.

He coughs as he steps into the classroom, shutting the door behind him softly. There is a cauldron on every desk, some bubbling and some empty, and Neville, of all people, is kneeling in the far corner, pulling ingredients out of a large pile of burlap sacks and ordering them in neat rows.

Malfoy barely glances at him as he paces between the front row of desks, in front of Snape's empty portrait, which is propped on the teacher's desk against the wall.

Neville dusts off his hands and walks over him. At Harry's curious look, he grins self-consciously. "Someone needed to help Malfoy sort all the ingredients that came in; most are too volatile to be moved with magic. Even _I_ can't bullocks that up."

"What is it, Potter?" Malfoy snaps, looking up from his intent examination of a frothing acid-green potion bubbling over the side of cauldron.

"Er," he says succinctly. He closes his eyes to shut out his anger at the sheer stupidity of the whole situation, the rage at Lavender as well as Parvati, who cared more about Lavender's safety than Hermione's life, and the still nameless person who started this whole nightmare.

Might as well get it over with. "According to Parvati Patil, Lavender Brown poisoned Hermione, but she wasn't the one who came up with the idea or who brewed the poison. And Lavender and Parvati are both gone, so we can't question them."

Neville grunts as if someone punched him. "Why?" he asks in horror, and even Malfoy stops stirring for a moment.

Harry starts to explain about Lavender's heartbroken, twisted view of her relationship with Ron, but Malfoy holds up his hand. "Tell him later, Potter. What I need to know is if Patil told you anything about the poison."

"Well, she said whoever it was got the poison to Lavender somehow and she put it on Hermione's food somehow." He thinks back to that horrible day, and suddenly remembers Lavender sitting down near them at lunch while he was reading the note from the Slytherins. She had reached across for a slice of bread and seemingly accidentally pulled out two, and casually handed the extra over to Hermione, who hadn't gotten any yet. "It was that same day Hermione fell ill, I'm sure of it," he breathes. "She must have put it on a slice of bread."

"What was that, about two hours before Granger showed symptoms?" Malfoy asks, reaching for his notebook.

Harry nods, wanting to bang his head against the wall for not remembering that ever-so-forgettable scene until now. For letting Lavender get away with it. Would it have helped, though, if even Lavender didn't know what the poison was or whose instructions she was following?

"And the poison was still effective… the more delicate poisons would have broken down when added to a foreign body…" Malfoy is muttering to himself as he chews on the end of his quill, so Harry takes the chance to explain to Neville in a low voice Lavender's motivation.

Malfoy jerks his head up. "She was in _love_ with Weasley?" he says in horror.

Harry's first reaction is anger that Malfoy would waste time to mock Ron, but the Slytherin continues, and Harry realizes Malfoy's horror is not directed at the idea of Ron as an object of affection. "I had crossed off all the love, lust, and jealousy-based poisons off my list because they seemed so unlikely," he says, almost frantically, flicking his wand to extinguish the cauldron flame in the potion he is attending. "But I'd bet that's what it is, it's too much of a coincidence to pick Brown otherwise."

He strides away, vanishing the ingredients in the cauldrons as he goes. "Longbottom!" he says. "I need you. Lay out all the dark creature ingredients, and the unicorn parts, and any of the plants you think might help."

Neville spins over to do Malfoy's bidding without any apparent resentment, and so Harry leaves them to it, closing the door on Malfoy talking to himself again, muttering "…hundreds of varieties…love or lust…" and other snippets Harry doesn't pretend to understand.

"Potter!" he shouts over his shoulder. "Don't come back here unless you've got more information on the poison."

Harry tenses his shoulders at the idea of taking instruction from Malfoy, but forces himself to nod. He closes the door quietly behind him, and tries to tell himself that they are making progress, even when it feels like every new piece of information is just another setback in disguise.

He heads to Hermione's room. He needs to be with Ginny and Hermione, and let the worries of the outside world fade away for just a little while.


	16. Chapter 15

_"All oppression creates a state of war.__"_

_-Simone de Beauvoir_

**Chapter Fifteen**

Hermione's room is just as Harry left it, the dank air hitting him, cool and clammy, as he opens the door. Ginny is curled up, asleep, on the end of Hermione's bed, her fists clutched in the sheets and her brows furrowed like she is dreaming something unpleasant.

Hermione looks unchanged, though she might be a tad paler. He refuses to think about that. They _are_ making progress. They _will_ figure this out in time. Nothing else bears thinking about.

He yawns suddenly, tiredness flowing over him, but he can't afford to be tired. Not now. He just feels so helpless. He's made his speech, helped Malfoy as much he can.

If only someone would just tell him what to do next.

Another yawn nearly splits his face, and he concedes to himself, _alright, but just a nap_. He can't go to the dormitories, though. He won't risk Hermione needing him and not being there for her.

Ginny whimpers and rolls over in her sleep, and Harry notices that Hermione's bed is bigger than it was in the Hospital Wing, larger now than the typical infirmary-sized cot. For her comfort? Perhaps. Whatever the reason, though, it's big enough for him to sleep in, even with Ginny there, too.

Would the girls mind? The bed's big enough that they won't even touch, and there's no couch here, obviously. It's this or the floor. He glances from the cold, hard stone to the fluffy white bed. Not much of a choice at all, really. If Ginny wakes up and gets angry with him, he'll transfigure a pillow out of something and take the floor. Not until then, though.

His mind made up, he slips off his shoes and spells the door to stay locked until he breaks the spell. Ginny has shifted so she's almost parallel to Hermione, and Harry lies down on Hermione's other side, falling asleep as he watches her breathe, willing her never to stop.

At first, he doesn't know what wakes him. He feels like he's slept for an hour or two, but he could easily use another ten or so more. He has shifted in his sleep, and his arm is draped around Hermione's waist, his hand in Ginny's hair. He is baffled by that for an instant, before he vaguely recalls Ginny whimpering from a nightmare, and him reaching out sleepily to smooth her hair and soothe her back to sleep.

He carefully withdraws his hand to prevent her from being angry with him for his presumptuousness upon waking, and sits up. He looks around, trying to figure out what woke him, when the room is as dark and quiet as it was when he fell asleep.

Just then, Hermione twitches, and the bed jolts. He stares down at her in alarm. Her whole body quivers for a minute, then she is still again. He hasn't seen her move since she was poisoned, and this new development does not have the feel of anything good. She twitches again, harder this time.

Numbly, Harry reaches for his wand. "_Expecto Patronum_," he whispers. For a minute, he thinks his stag isn't going to come. _It's almost as if I'm having trouble thinking positive thoughts_, he thinks sarcastically. Finally, it appears, as wispy and formless as he has ever seen it. "Tell Malfoy I need him now," he tells his patronus. "Something's wrong with Hermione." His stag bows and gallops through the closed door and disappears. He stands and casts the spell to unlock the door.

Ginny sits up in bed, rubbing her eyes. "Harry?" she says blearily. "What's wrong – oh." She looks down to see Hermione shaking, rocking the whole bed now. "What happened?"

"I dunno," Harry says dully as he watches Hermione. "Malfoy's coming." There doesn't seem to be anything else to say. Is this the end? Malfoy hadn't said to watch out for anything like this. _Maybe he didn't know._ Harry knows much of potions making is uncharted territory.

By the time Malfoy rushes in and begins a series of spells to test Hermione's vital responses, Harry's best friend is shaking so hard the bed frame creaks, her toes curling and her back arching. Ginny whimpers and clutches her cheeks, her nails digging in and leaving red marks.

"Ginny," he says softly but firmly. Slowly, she turns to meet his eyes, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "Go see if there's anything that's safe for Madame Pomfrey to give us to calm her." He would be shocked if there is anything that can help, but Ginny doesn't need to see her friend like this; she has enough nightmares already.

She nods slowly and drops her hands from her face. "Get Madame Pomfrey. Right." She leaves without another word.

"This doesn't make sense," Malfoy finally says as he paces in front of the bed, sounding frustrated. "Shaking and seizures are muscle spasms. The poison shouldn't be having any impact on her muscle control… she should be in a completely coma-like state, totally still and unresponsive."

"Maybe she's just prone to shaking," Harry suggests without much conviction, as Malfoy kneels down to feel her pulse and scrawl something in his notebook. "Even before Lavender poisoned her, her hands shook all that day."

Malfoy drops Hermione's wrist, and stares at him across the room for a full five heartbeats before saying in a tone of complete derision, "Potter, you complete and utter _fucking_ idiot."

Harry jerks in surprise. Whatever he and Malfoy are to each other now… business partners acting out the terms of their agreement? Reluctant allies?... he has lowered his defenses around the Slytherin boy, and the sudden insult surprises him.

Before he can react, though, Malfoy tears out the piece of paper in his notebook that he had been writing on, and begins scribbling on the next blank page. "Okay, Potter. Here's what we're going to do. You're going to tell me _exactly_ how Granger acted that day, not whatever edited shite you told me before."

He gives Malfoy a baffled look. "Are you saying that her hands shaking was a symptom? How could that be? She hadn't been poisoned yet."

Malfoy blows his breath out impatiently. "What I'm telling you, Potter, is that she was on something else when she was poisoned." When Harry still doesn't get it, he clarifies, "_Another_ potion, you nimwit."

"What? Why would she be taking any potions?"

"Oh gee, let me think, it's not like she saw her boyfriend die right in front-" Malfoy cuts off his sarcastic tirade. "I'm sure it's something to do with the trauma of the war," he finishes in a calmer voice. "Lots of students are on potions this year."

"Oh." It makes sense, he supposes, but Harry had never considered anything like that for himself. That would feel almost like cheating, somehow. He _deserves_ the pain.

Malfoy has his quill poised. "Okay, Potter, let's start with behavior. Did Granger say anything unusual or out of character in the day or two before she was poisoned?"

Harry stares at him. "She hasn't said a word since Ron died."

Malfoy looks up in surprise. "I'd heard a rumor that she wasn't talking, but I thought it was only to outsiders. You're saying she wouldn't talk to you or Weasley, either?"

"Not a word."

Malfoy sighs and pushes his hair out of his eyes. "That complicates things. Alright, then let's think about the type of potion she would be on. Most of the students here that are getting help are on some form of mood boosting potion, energy potion, or a dreamless sleep-"

There is a knock on the door, and Ginny steps inside a moment later. "Madame Pomfrey said there was nothing that would help her," she says emotionlessly.

Harry holds an arm out to her automatically, and with only a slight hesitation, she squeezes into his side and lets him wrap his arm around her shoulders. "Malfoy thinks Hermione was on some sort of potion when she was poisoned," he tells her softly.

Her eyes widen in surprise. "I never thought of that," she says bitterly. "But I'll bet she was. She should have been getting better over time, but it felt like she was getting worse." Hermione shakes again, as if in agreement.

Malfoy nods. "That's typical of the type of potion she was probably on. She would have had to take progressively higher doses to get results that were weaker and weaker."

"Whatever it was, Malfoy, I don't think it was calming her down or cheering her up or anything," Harry says. "She seemed tense and unhappy all the time."

Malfoy grunts and scribbles something on his notebook. "Probably not a mood boosting potion, then. Sleeping or energy potion?"

"She's looked like she hasn't slept ever since Ron…" Ginny swallows hard. "_Died_, ever since he died, she's looked like she needed about a month of sleep."

Malfoy stands, slipping his notebook and quill into his pocket. "Sounds like an energy potion, then. That could explain why her condition's degenerated so quickly. And those have nasty side effects all on their own, if you don't wean yourself off of them carefully."

Hermione seizes up so violently that she almost falls off the bed, and Harry rushes over to hold her arms down so she can't hurt herself. She's so thin that it's no effort at all to hold her still, even though she's bucking as hard as she physically can.

"Is it safe to paralyze her?" Ginny asks. When Malfoy nods, she pulls out her wand and casts _Petrificus Totalus_. Hermione falls blessedly still, and Ginny draws in a shaky breath.

"I think I can come up with something that will counteract the potion," Malfoy says. "I'll need both of you to help me, though. Getting that out of her system should buy us a few days at least, but still, I don't want to lose too much time on the antidote."

"Of course," Harry says, and lets Malfoy lead them out of the room, giving Hermione's still form one last, longing look.

Snape's portrait is in front of the classroom this time, the man himself sitting in his tall wing-backed chair with his customary sneer on his face. Ginny snarls wordlessly when she sees him, and Harry realizes that he has never told her about Snape's memories. Though, when would he have had the chance? "Be civil to Snape," he settles for telling her. "Please. I'll explain later."

She meets his eyes and he sees the distrust in them. After all, the Snape she remembers allowed Death Eaters to teach at the school, turned a blind eye to torture and terror in the halls of Hogwarts, and, above all, murdered Dumbledore. Finally, she nods. "Later," she echoes.

Malfoy gestures the two of them to the opposite side of the classroom where his potions and ingredients are set up. "Professor," Malfoy says as he walks over to peer into one of his own cauldrons. "Granger was on some sort of energy boosting potion when she was poisoned. Can you help Potter and Weasley brew something to counteract that?"

Snape narrows his eyes but nods, surveying the two of them over steepled fingers. "I daresay Miss Weasley has considerably more skill in Potions brewing than you, Potter." Harry doesn't dispute that. "Go search Granger's belongings for any sign of the potion she may have used. Bring anything suspicious back here to me, no matter what it is."

Harry nods and rises, watching as Ginny begins to take instructions from Snape, her movements stiff and her expression resentful. Snape either doesn't notice or doesn't care. Probably the latter. "Set one bronze cauldron to high heat, adding essence of dittany and powdered bezoar…"

Harry closes the door softly behind him and turns, only to almost run into Blaise Zabini. The dark boy has a strange look in his eyes – Harry would say _frightened_ except he knows Slytherins certainly don't allow themselves to show weak emotions like fear.

"I have to talk to you," he says in a low, urgent voice, pulling Harry with him away from the classroom.

Harry stares at him helplessly, feeling overwhelmed. There are only so many crises he can deal with at once. "Zabini…Blaise – I can't right now, this is important–"

Blaise ignores him and leads Harry to the end of the hall, a dark dead end with no doors.

"My mother finally wrote me back," Blaise says, as he casts a privacy charm around the two of them. "Listen, Potter, I think I know what the poison is, or at least the type. It's a 'Lover Scorned' Dark love poison, which makes sense, with Brown being the one to administer it. My mother mentioned it to me in passing years ago, though I never knew the exact ingredients or its effects. I think Granger can be cured, but the antidote must be brewed very, very carefully."

Harry reels from the overload of information. And _hope_ is there, clinging on to the edge of his awareness. "Then I need to go back and tell Malfoy right away." He starts walking, and Blaise has to hurry to catch up with him, stepping in front of him so Harry is forced to stop or run into him.

"Potter, I didn't go to Draco immediately for a _reason_." He takes a deep breath. "Look, not many people at Hogwarts both know about the existence of such an obscure poison, and also have the capacity to brew it…the only one I can think of is Draco." He hesitates, looking torn. "He's my friend, but I swore _you_ an oath," he says finally, glancing toward the closed classroom door.

"No," Harry says flatly as he steps around Zabini again, shaking his head. He refuses to even consider the possibility. _Because if he doesn't have Draco's help, all hope is lost_. "No, that isn't possible. He has everything to lose if it was him, and he's helping us. I trust him that far."

"Potter, listen to me!" Blaise almost shouts in frustration. "I've only ever mentioned that poison to anyone but my mother one time in my _life_. I can remember it clearly, alright? I was kidding around, walking around to the lake fourth year, with Draco, Tracey, Daphne and–" Zabini cuts off abruptly. Harry turns around to see Blaise's face slack with shock. He notes somewhere in the back of his head that this is the most expression he has ever seen from the Slytherin boy.

"And Theodore Nott," Zabini finishes hoarsely, staring at Harry in horror.


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

_"Hatred is blind, as well as love."_

_-Oscar Wilde_

* * *

For a heartbeat, Harry and Blaise just look blankly at each other, and Harry knows his expression of horror is mirrored on the Slytherin boy's. He is vaguely aware that mundane life at Hogwarts is still going on: students in crossing hallways laugh together; a leaky pipe somewhere drips steadily. And Harry's world has just fallen apart.

"But…" he says stupidly, "why?"

Blaise shakes his head as if to clear it. "Let's focus on that later, Potter."

Harry nods, his head still feeling fuzzy. "Yeah. Go, Zabini. Bring Nott to me." His voice hardens. "I don't care what you have to do. Just find him."

* * *

Harry enters Malfoy's laboratory and Ginny, who is crushing snail eggs for her potion when he returns, looks up in surprise. "That was quick," she comments.

Harry can't bring himself to respond. He is numb, as if all the rage and fear and confusion inside of him are canceling each other out, leaving him cold and empty. He walks past Ginny to stand in front of Malfoy, who is stirring his own cauldron and saying something to Snape's portrait.

Both Slytherins stare at him with vaguely annoyed expressions as he stops in front of them, but Malfoy's expression quickly turns to shock, his movements stilling, as Harry dully recites his conversation with Zabini. Ginny stops sorting potions ingredients to listen, her eyes large and stricken.

When Harry finishes, Malfoy doesn't say anything, just stares down at the stirring rod that dangles loosely from his fingers, forgotten.

"Malfoy, what-" Harry starts to ask when he can't take the waiting any longer, but Malfoy cuts him off.

"Let me think, Potter," he snaps. Impatient, Harry watches Malfoy pace and mutter to Snape.

A few minutes later, Malfoy finally turns back to Harry. "I have something that might work as a makeshift antidote, based on what I know about these kinds of poisons," he says. "It's far from ideal, though."

"Just tell me," Harry almost growls at him.

"Basically, someone has to vouch for the victim's integrity. A potion like this is all about intent and belief, so you have to play by those rules. Lavender Brown _believed_ Granger stole Weasley from her, so someone has to step forward who believes otherwise. Then Magic takes over as judge, jury and executioner."

"_Executioner_?" Ginny asks sharply. Her face is still drained of color, but she looks steady as she walks over to stand beside Harry.

Malfoy nods toward Snape, who drawls, "To ensure the person vouching is... sincere in his or her belief, that person's fate is tied to the victim's. In other words, Miss Weasley, if Magic decides in favor of Brown, then Miss Granger and the person who has vouched for her will die. Otherwise, Brown will die."

Harry sits down heavily in the nearest desk. "So either way, someone has to die."

Snape inclines his head. "Magic will demand at least one life," he says, his face showing no more expression now than he ever did while living.

"There has to be another way!" Ginny says desperately, raw fear on her face as her eyes dart to Harry.

Snape sneers, and Malfoy spreads his hands. "This is dark magic we're talking about, Potter. There won't be any easy solutions, and we haven't the time to experiment. I doubt even counteracting the energy potion she was on will do us much good, beyond buying us some time." His dark eyes bore into Harry's. "Unless you can tell me something I don't know about the poison, and soon, we have a day, perhaps, until Granger succumbs to it."

Harry's hold on his temper is so tenuous that he has to restrain himself from punching Malfoy. Even acknowledging that Hermione could die is completely unacceptable. "Zabini will bring Nott to us soon, Malfoy. We'll figure out a way to do this so nobody has to die."

"But Potter-" Malfoy starts, looking far from convinced, but Harry refuses to listen to his defeatism.

"Please, Malfoy," he says tiredly as he walks back to the door, his anger abruptly gone. "If there is anything you can do that might help with the poison, do it. Please."

Malfoy scowls but only says, "I still need the potion Granger was taking," before turning back to Snape's portrait.

Ginny follows Harry out of the room. "Harry..." she says uncertainly once they are alone in the hallways. "I know Lavender didn't know exactly what she was doing, but Hermione doesn't deserve to die in her place because that chit was being a self-centered idiot!"

He stops and faces Ginny, his hands reaching out to grip hers. "We've all made decisions we regret, Ginny. That alone doesn't make anyone evil."

"But Harry-"

He cuts off her protests. "But there is _no_ scenario where Hermione isn't going to come back alive from this. Alright?"

Ginny nods, looking calmer, if not completely convinced. "I'll run up to Hermione's dorm, Harry. I need some space to think, anyway. You go sit with Hermione."

He nods, trying to show some warmth in the tight smile he gives her, and returns to Hermione's room.

* * *

Alone with his thoughts, Harry sits on the floor beside Hermione's bed and stares at the blank stone wall across from him, racking his brain for anything and everything he knows about Theodore Nott.

Every time he focuses on his memories with his interactions with the Slytherins over his past seven years at Hogwarts, he can't seem to remember Nott doing much of anything, or even being present most of the time. Most of the Slytherins travelled in packs, and even those who didn't hang around Malfoy, like Tracey and Daphne, had their own pack of Slytherins that Harry recognized on sight, if not by name. Yet Harry can't visualize a place where Nott fits in any of those groups.

Almost all of his few memories of Nott are of a brooding, sulky boy hanging on the edges of the Slytherin fringe in classes and at mealtimes. Mostly ignored and forgotten, Harry suspects, which reminds him a bit of a young Snape, except even Snape wouldn't have hurt someone without cause.

The door creaks open, and Harry is interrupted from his dark thoughts by Ginny returning, her eyes troubled. "Malfoy said the antidote to the energy potion will only buy us half a day," she says as she drops down beside him on the floor.

Harry nods and leans his head back against the wall. What is there to say to that? It's as if the universe is conspiring to let Hermione die.

_Well, I was supposed to die, too_, he thinks. _But I didn't, and I won't let her die, either. _

Malfoy comes in a half hour later to tip a bubbling potion down Hermione's throat, which immediately relaxes her body enough that they can take off the paralysis spell, leaving her looking like she's back to sleeping peacefully. _Or dying peacefully,_ Harry tries very hard not to think.

His mood darkens with every hour that passes, and he has to keep reminding himself that the Chosen One joining the manhunt would likely send half the school into hiding or clamming up completely. The waiting is the worst part of this whole nightmarish experience, yet.

Even Luna and Neville dropping by that afternoon with sandwiches from the kitchens can't distract him from his mounting anxiety. What if he's wrong about everything? What if they never find Nott? What if the spell rules in Lavender's favor, and he has condemned his best friend to death?

"Anything you need, Harry? Ginny?" Neville asks them in a concerned voice. Harry looks at Ginny, who just shakes her head.

"Nothing but Nott caught and Hermione healthy again, Nev," he says bleakly.

Luna bends over to kiss him and Ginny on the foreheads. "It will be, soon," she says with a soft smile.

Harry nods, but he doesn't really feel reassured. "I hope so," he says, and his two friends leave Ginny and him alone again, with just their worry and each other for company.

* * *

After that, time drips away both too slowly and too fast, and Harry judges the passing of the time from afternoon into evening into night by his two regular visitors: Zabini, who drops by every hour, each time telling them that he and the other Purebloods haven't found Nott yet, but they will find him soon. And Malfoy, who comes by every couple of hours to check Hermione's heart rate and breathing.

Between their visits, Harry and Ginny sit on the chairs facing Hermione's bed, in a sort of tense companionship, both of them staring at their friend with fixed gazes, as if she will stop breathing if they look away. Sometime during these long hours, Ginny has slipped her hand into his, interlaced tightly, and he knows when her fear spikes because she squeezes hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

A little before midnight, Malfoy doesn't turn to go after writing down Hermione's vitals. Instead, he looks up at Harry with a grave expression. "We're starting to push it, Potter. She's fading fast."

Harry takes a deep breath and stands up. He knew it would probably come to this, but he wanted so badly to find Nott, not for his own safety, but because this risk to Hermione's is unacceptable. Of course, he doesn't get a choice. "Alright," he says. "Let's do the spell."

Malfoy nods. "In the lab," he says, and slips out the door, leaving Harry alone with Ginny.

They share a long look that is filled with so many emotions that Harry only recognizes half of them. This feels like goodbye, even though it shouldn't. "Whatever happens," he tells her finally, hoping he sounds strong and convincing, "you'll be okay, Ginny. You're strong and brave and you _will_ get through this."

Her eyes fill with tears, and can actually see as she tries to redirect her fear into anger.

"You and Hermione are _going_ to come back alive from this," she says firmly, but her lip trembles. "You both have sacrificed so much... it's just not right any other way. Magic will see that!"

Her voice breaks on the last word, and Harry doesn't know which of them moves first, but suddenly he is holding Ginny's face between his hands and leaning down to press his lips to hers, and her hands are tightening on his forearms as she desperately kisses him back. They stand there snogging, in the middle of the classroom beside Hermione's sleeping form, until Harry comes back to his senses and remembers the urgency of the situation. He gently pulls away from Ginny. "I've got to go," he whispers against her forehead. "Watch over Hermione for me."

"Always," she says softly, her fingers tracing her lips.

* * *

Once he is out in the hallway, however, he sees that Malfoy hasn't made it very far; he is standing halfway to his laboratory, speaking in lowered voices to Zabini. When Zabini sees Harry, he grabs Malfoy's elbow and they hurry toward him.

"We've got him, Potter," Zabini says in a rush, and he is actually out of breath, the most disarrayed that Harry has ever seen the Slytherin boy. "Caught him coming out of the Room of Requirement, and we've got him at a standoff."

Harry cuts his eyes to Malfoy. "Is there time for this?" he asks, and Malfoy gives him a small shrug.

"Granger has less than three hours left. It's probably worth a shot, but if you can't make Nott cooperate in an hour, come back here and we'll do the appeal."

Harry nods. "Nott will cooperate," he says flatly. "Take me to him."

Zabini leads him to a hallway upstairs that Harry knows once held the Room of Requirement, though he thought it was destroyed by the Fiendfyre last year. There is something insubstantial about the hallway, as if an opening is trying to form, and it fades in and out of existence.

He and Blaise stop just out of eyesight of the scene. Astoria, Terry, Tracey and a few of the other Purebloods have their wands trained on Nott, who stands stiffly with his back to the wall, his eyes darting between the students and the flickering doorway. Neville is there too, not exactly standing with the other Purebloods, but not exactly apart from them, either.

It's a battle of wills, Harry realizes. Nott is trying to bring the room into existence, and the others are fighting it. And if they haven't just overpowered him yet, the presence of the Room of Requirement must be negating their spells.

Astoria, of course, is standing at the forefront of the group. "We can wait here all night, Nott, and you've got nowhere to run."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he says lazily, crossing his arms. "You'll slip up eventually, and I can hide for years in the Room of Hidden Things."

Astoria looks unimpressed. "Well, that _does_ sound appealing, Nott. But while we're here, why don't you go ahead and tell us why you poisoned Hermione Granger?"

Nott snorts and leans back against the wall, effecting nonchalance, but Harry can tell he is stalling. "If I did poison her - and I'm not saying I did, mind - the 'why' is bloody obvious, isn't it? A new order is rising, and I don't care that it's Potter, the Chosen One, a bloody _Gryffindor_, who's going to lead it."

"Potter doesn't strike me as caring much about leading a revolution, Nott," Astoria says idly, polishing her wand on her skirt.

Nott glaring around at all the students gathered around him. "He _would_ have, and he still will. But there you lot were, convincing Potter that the 'sweet little Purebloods' " - he sneers - "just want hugs and puppies."

Tracey frowns. "Nott, we've never done a damn thing to you."

"Yeah, exactly!" Nott snaps, and his charade of cool control evaporates. The wall behind him is abruptly completely solid again, though he doesn't seem to notice. "I've spent the past seven years being ignored by everyone unless I was useful to them somehow. We might have the whole 'united Slytherin' front going on for the others, but behind closed doors the bloody _house elves_ got more respect than I did."

"That was your choice!" Tracey says. "You weren't exactly loads of fun to be around. I remember you skulking in the corners and glaring at us most of the time."

"That's because you and yours didn't give me much of a choice!" Nott shouts back.

Just as it looks to Harry like things are going to devolve into a shouting match, Terry steps forward and lowers his wand non-threateningly. "Nott, you know I've nothing personal against you, so listen to me. We just need to know how to fix Hermione. This has already gotten way out of hand, and it's in your best interest to keep this _attempted_ rather than successful murder."

"Oh, I wasn't going to let it get that far," Nott says dismissively, as if Hermione isn't on her deathbed because of him. "I was just waiting until Potter turned on you bloody purebloods, and then I'd administer the antidote to Granger."

Beside him, Zabini taps his watch, and Harry nods. This isn't happening fast enough for Hermione. He steps out from the shadows of the corner, Zabini close behind him.

"Tell me the antidote now, Nott," he calls out as he approaches, "and I promise I'll hear you out." A dozen heads turn to watch him approach, though Harry notices that Tracey, Neville and Astoria keep their wands pointed at Nott.

Nott just sneers at him, something almost manic in his eyes. "Oh, not _near_ good enough, Potter. Don't fucking patronize me. I want Purebloods _gone_ from Hogwarts, _gone_ from the Ministry."

"You know I can't give you that, Nott," Harry tells him.

"Then you know I can't administer that antidote, Potter," Nott echoes in a high-pitched voice.

Harry can feel his anger building under his skin, sending sparks down to his fingertips, and he knows he's about to cause some serious accidental magic if he doesn't calm himself.

The thing is, he doesn't really feel like calming down. This... this scum, who Harry's never done a damn thing to in his life, is willing to let his best friend die - on a fucking _political_ play. Something inside him closes off inside his Occlumency barriers, much like the cool void he fell into after he realized that Ron was gone forever.

He steps up close to Nott, invading the Slytherin boy's personal space and staring him hard in the eyes.

"Did you know, Nott, just how very, _very_ good I've gotten at the _Cruciatus_ curse?" His voice comes out steely calm, almost conversational. "I can control the pain so you'll skate _just_ along the edge of insanity for hours and hours." It's an exaggeration, of course, but with enough truth to make it believable.

It obviously convinces Nott, since the Slytherin boy sucks in a breath and stares at Harry as if he's never seen him before.

Harry leans in to whisper in Nott's ear, "And do you know what else? Not a single person would stop me." He pulls back. "Less than a minute in and you'll be telling me your deepest secrets, worst fears. Maybe I'll stop then. But maybe I'll keep going." Pulling out his wand, Harry tilts his head to look at Nott evenly. "Are you ready to find out?"

"Bone," Nott breathes out shakily.

Harry frowns. "What?"

"The antidote needs bone from Weasley to work." He swallows compulsively. "But Magic demands a balance, and Brown's intentions will double back on her."

Harry turns to look at the other Purebloods, who are still standing at his back, prepared to strike down Nott. "He means that if Brown wanted Granger to die, she'll die instead," Blaise tells him. "If she just wanted Granger to hurt, she'll be hurt instead. Intention and balance."

"So you were willing to risk Lavender's life, all along," Harry says grimly. "Good to know. I guess we'll just have to hope Lavender didn't have murderous intentions."

"Just a sliver of bone will do, I'm guessing?" he asks Nott, who nods tightly.

He turns to Neville. "Could you floo over to the Burrow and get a tiny piece from Ron's grave? Tell them it's to save Hermione's life."

Neville nods. "Of course, Harry."

"Forcing us to desecrate our friend's body," Harry says in disgust as he watches Neville leave. "You're fucking disgusting, Nott."

He looks around at the small group gathered around him. Astoria, Tracey and Blaise are expressionless, which as Slytherins, probably means they're hiding their true emotions. They've done what they promised him. He's going to have to start working on his end of the bargain now. Hermione first, though.

"Take him to Headmistress," he tells Astoria. "He can stay in the Ministry cells with some of the Death Eaters still awaiting trial."

Nott pushes himself off the wall angrily, his eyes too wide as if he can't believe what is happening. "I gave you what you wanted, Potter! Keep me away from these monsters!"

Harry just stares at him in incredulity for a moment. "You gave in because you were a coward, Nott, not because it was the right thing to do. And you're so fucking small-minded that you somehow can't see that you're _just like_ the Death Eaters. Have a nice stay in Azkaban."

He leaves his Purebloods to immobilize Nott, afraid that if he stays he will do something to the Slytherin bastard that he might regret. Or might regret _not_ regretting. Nott screams obscenities at him until he is bound and silenced, and Harry can feel the weight of many eyes heavy on his back until he turns a corner.

* * *

He returns to Hermione's room, and it's almost like the whole encounter with Nott hasn't happened. But everything has changed, and he dares to hope.

Neville brings a small vial of Ron's remains to Malfoy, and less than a half hour later, Malfoy comes in to funnel the antidote, a gelatinous red potion that looks completely ordinary, down Hermione's throat. "Come get me if there are any changes," he instructs them. "Good or bad."

So now he and Ginny sit and wait to see if Hermione will come back to them, or if they have to watch yet another person they love die.

Ginny finally breaks the silence that they have been sitting in since Malfoy left. "Harry..." she says quietly, and he can see her watching him guardedly from the corner of her eye.

"Yeah?"

She picks at the blanket she has in her lap and avoids his eyes. "What did that kiss mean?"

He probably should have been expecting this, but somehow he wasn't. He hasn't exactly had time for much introspection since their kiss, after all. The only thing he does know is that having Ginny in his arms again had been unexpected but _right_. It was as if the darkness in him lightened a bit when he was kissing her, and as if her sharp edges were smoothing over.

"Er..." he says awkwardly, feeling his own confusion and uncertainty take hold of him. "What do you want it to mean?" He knows the verbal volley is a bit cowardly for the Gryffindor who killed Voldemort, but matters of the heart are somehow more terrifying even than Dark Lords.

She bites her lip. "I want it to mean something," she says quickly, watching him for his reaction. "I want it to-" She cuts off with a choking sound. "Hermione!"

He turns in time to see Hermione shift, her cracked lips forming soundless words, and Harry almost breaks open his kneecap as he hurtles over his chair to make it to her.

His best friend opens her eyes, slowly focusing on his face, a heartbeat before she says softly, "Harry? Where am I?"

"Oh, Hermione," he breathes, and his voice, desperate and hopeful and happy, sounds strange to him. He clutches her hand through the sheets. "You're in the dungeons, in a hidden classroom. And I have missed you so, so much."

* * *

_A/N: I'm really, really sorry for the delay, guys. I have no good excuse, other than the fact that I discovered Buffy (yeah, welcome to 1997, I know, I know) and then after that Vampire Diaries TV show. They distracted me! But I will always come back to Harry Potter, don't worry. And I will never abandon a story, it would eat on my conscience too much._

_One other note: When I started writing this story, I was thinking Theodore Nott wasn't someone we knew anything about, so I could use him for my purposes, but I have since realized that JKR has stated that he's a pureblood. Oh, well._

_I will try very hard not to go seven months between chapters again. Thank you for any and all feedback!_


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

_"Most of the important things in the world have been accomplished by people who have kept on trying when there seemed to be no hope at all."_

_-Dale Carnegie_

There are a few moments in his life that Harry knows, even as they are happening, will be crystallized forever in his memories. The first time he rode a broom is one of them, and the moment that Sirius asked him to live with him and for those few minutes he'd actually believed it was possible is another.

As Hermione accepts long hugs from him and Ginny, as Ginny laughs through her tears, as Hermione clings to his hand tightly and doesn't let go, Harry knows that this is one of _those_ moments.

They finally pull back so that Hermione can sit up, and Ginny's smile extends to include him. It's almost like he is seeing her for the first time, knowing that in this moment, she is happy. It's something he hasn't seen from her for so long, and a part of him was afraid he would never see again.

"Where am I?" Hermione asks again after taking a long swallow of water, her voice hoarse. Harry takes a moment to marvel at the fact that she is _speaking_ before he answers her.

"You're in a hidden room at Hogwarts," he says, his smile fading. How do you tell your best friend that someone tried to murder her? "You were poisoned. St. Mungo's couldn't help you, and McGonagall said it would be a political nightmare if you – well, if you couldn't be healed at Hogwarts. So she moved you here." Harry scowls at that memory, at the mere thought that _anything_ could be more important than saving Hermione's life.

"Someone tried to kill me," Hermione repeats slowly, as if testing the concept out. She takes a deep breath and lets it out. "Alright. Do you know who it was? And why?" In this moment she reminds him so much of the girl he thought he'd lost forever that Harry's chest actually aches. He had almost forgotten how she could set aside her own comfort to solve any problem she encountered.

Malfoy opens the door before Harry can respond. Hermione's eyes widen upon seeing the Slytherin walking nonchalantly toward her, surveying her with a critical gaze. "Good job getting me, Potter," Malfoy says sarcastically.

"It's only been a few minutes," Harry protests. "I didn't want to overwhelm her."

Malfoy rolls his eyes and reaches for Hermione's wrist. Hermione tenses, looking sideways at Harry in confusion.

"Malfoy saved your life," Harry tells her. "Ginny and I and … a few others-" no need to mention his pureblood arrangement at the moment "-helped, but we never could have brewed the antidote without him."

Draco Malfoy will never be Harry's friend, but he saved Hermione, and that counts for a lot, in his book. Everything.

Hermione stares at Malfoy. "Oh. Then…thank you, Malfoy," she says after a long moment. It's cost her something to say that, Harry can tell.

Malfoy freezes in recording her pulse, an almost imperceptible motion that Harry thinks is sheer surprise. "Is the silent treatment over, then, Granger?" he says finally, his tone neutral. There is no apology in return, but then, Harry would have been a fool to expect one.

Hermione shrugs one shoulder, her loose infirmary gown slipping down to reveal a jutting collarbone, and Harry makes a mental note to make sure she eats more from now on. "It seems a bit silly now, doesn't it?"

Harry thinks he can see the faintest trace of a smile on Malfoy's lips as he marks something down in his notebook.

"She'll be okay now, right?" Harry asks him.

Malfoy nods. There are dark circles under his eyes, and Harry remembers that he isn't the only one who has lost a lot of sleep over the past week. "She'll be a bit weak and tire easily for the next few days, but that should be it. It's Brown who will be dealing with some rather unfortunate side effects, now, if she isn't dead."

"Brown?" Hermione repeats in disbelief. "_Lavender_ Brown? What has she got to do with this?"

Harry frowns at Malfoy in annoyance. He had hoped he would have time to explain things to Hermione more gently, but the Slytherin just rolls his eyes at him and turns to let himself out.

Harry sighs in resignation as Hermione turns to him expectantly. "Lavender was apparently, er... a lot more attached to Ron than we thought."

Ginny's expression darkens. "She convinced herself that you'd stolen him away," she tells Hermione. "And that if he'd chosen her, he'd still be alive now."

Hermione purses her lips, her expression skeptical. "Even so, I've sat near her in Potions for six years. She couldn't brew anything more dangerous than a hair crimping potion."

"Lavender just slipped it to you," Harry says. "Theodore Nott brewed the poison." He fights down another surge of rage, his Occlumency walls struggling to contain his desire to make sure Nott is punished, now that Hermione is safe.

Hermione pauses, and Harry can almost see her scanning her photographic memory. "The tetchy-looking Slytherin boy in our year? He never spoke a word that I ever heard."

"Yeah, well, he speaks, I assure you," Harry says dryly. "He's muggleborn, and I guess he'd been pretty unhappy in Slytherin. He thought his day had come for revenge."

"So it was a set-up," Hermione says thoughtfully. She's taking this all remarkably well, though it could be information overload. Or it could just be Hermione being Hermione. "To make you think a pureblood had poisoned me."

Harry nods, impressed as always by her cleverness. "He wanted me to start an anti-pureblood war, or something like it."

"It didn't work though, I hope?" Hermione asks, suddenly anxious.

Ginny speaks up, her voice neutral. "It did the opposite. Harry made a deal with a lot of the purebloods. With them and Malfoy."

Hermione's fingers tighten on her blanket. "Oh, Harry, I hope you didn't agree to anything too terrible."

"Just to do my part to make sure the Ministry doesn't try to completely steamroll over their culture," he says, shrugging. "I'll only work with them as long as they play nice."

"I suppose that's understandable." Hermione slides down in the bed, closing her eyes. "But I am sorry you had to get more embroiled in politics for my sake," she says with a yawn. "I know how you hate it."

"I'd start a bloody war for you, Hermione," he tells her as her eyes drift close, and she chuckles and reaches out blindly to grip his hand.

As he smiles fondly down at his best friend, her fingers interlaced with his and a warm feeling washing over him again as he realizes once more that she is _alive_, his eyes meet Ginny's over Hermione's shoulder.

He wasn't joking about starting a war, and Ginny knows it, too.

In fact, he's not sure what he _wouldn't_ be willing to do to save either of them.

* * *

A soft knocking on the door interrupts his doze. He rises quickly, disentangling his hand from Hermione's, and hurries to the door before the sound wakes her.

It's Astoria, her eyes intent as she sees him. "Draco told me Granger had woken up," she says quietly. "I'm sorry to rush you, but we need to talk and see what our next steps should be."

Before he can respond, he hears rustling sheets and muted whispering behind him. "Let her in, please, Harry," Hermione says, sitting up against the backboard. "I'm awake."

Obediently, he opens the door wider and gestures Astoria inside. She hesitates, then steps into the room cautiously. She stops in front of Hermione's bed, darting a quick glance at Harry before returning to her normal inscrutable air.

"Hello," Hermione says, her expression calm. "You're Daphne's sister, aren't you?"

Astoria flinches. "_Yes_," she says shortly. "I'm Astoria Greengrass." Harry suddenly realizes he hasn't seen Daphne since coming back to Hogwarts. He thinks he would remember if she'd been killed or injured in the war. He will have to ask Hermione later if she knows (because she is _awake_).

"You know who I am, of course. Hermione Granger." She doesn't hold her hand out to shake, which Harry thinks is probably wise.

Nodding, Astoria looks like she wants to get away while trying hard not to look like that's what she wants.

"I wanted to thank you," Hermione says. "For helping Harry, and for helping me."

"Potter and I had an agreement," Astoria says stiffly. "No gratitude is necessary."

Hermione smiles. "Nevertheless, you have it. Without your help, I'd have almost certainly died. And that would have upset Harry." Beside her, Ginny snorts at the understatement.

Astoria seems to relax infinitesimally. "It was a completely inappropriate, _unforgiveable_ thing that Nott did."

Hermione tilts her head. "Even though I'm just a filthy Mudblood?" She says it as if she's asking if the weather will be nice enough to walk outside today.

"I don't wish _death_ upon you," Astoria snaps, startled out of her stiffness.

"Nor I on you," Hermione says softly. "That's something, isn't it?"

Astoria seems at loss for words for a moment, something Harry has never seen before from her. "We are agreed on Nott's behavior, Granger," she says finally. "Let us leave the other discussion for a later date."

Hermione leans back against the headboard, looking satisfied. "Of course," she says. "You came here for Harry, didn't you? Please, don't let me detain you any longer."

Harry looks at Hermione uncertainly. Having just got her back, the thought of leaving her so soon _hurts_. But he is learning what it is like to have responsibilities again, and he has made a commitment to Astoria and the other purebloods that he will not renege on now.

"We'll go up to the Tower and wash up and then get something from the kitchens, right, Hermione?" Ginny says.

Hermione nods emphatically. "I feel like I've been lying abed for a week," she says, grimacing at the robes she's been in since the day she was poisoned. "Which, incidentally..."

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" Harry can't help asking her, even though he knows it's stupid, and that Hermione is likely better at taking care of both herself and him than he is of just himself.

Ginny rolls her eyes at him before turning to Hermione to help her sit up. "I think Hermione and I together can manage not to fall off the Tower without you around for half an hour, Harry."

"All the balconies at Hogwarts have Soft Landing charms on them, anyway," Astoria says unexpectedly from beside him, her lips quirked.

"Alright, then, but only because the castle is charmed to be safe for delicate damsels," he says, just to see the indignant looks on Ginny and Hermione's faces.

"Get out of here, Potter, before I have the strength to hex you!" Hermione says crossly.

Astoria smirks and starts for the door, and Harry is suddenly so overwhelmed with relief that Hermione is _back,_ she is _safe,_ that he strides across the room and quickly kisses her on the forehead, laughing as she pushes him away.

"An hour, at most," he tells them, more cheerful than he has been in weeks. "Don't let her get into too much trouble without me, Gin."

"Oh, you are not one to talk, Harry Potter!" Hermione calls back to him.

* * *

"I admit that I was afraid, even up until the moment you told us to take Nott to McGonagall, that you might change your mind and side with him," Astoria confesses delicately as they walk slowly around the perimeter of the castle. It is late afternoon, meaning he, Ginny and Hermione had slept for hours longer than he'd realized, and the scattered trees near the castle cast long shadows across their path.

Harry looks up in astonishment. "Don't be daft, Astoria. What Nott wanted to do was just as wrong as what Voldemort and the Death Eaters wanted to do - eliminate people who weren't just like them."

Astoria sighs. "It's just difficult," she says after a moment, "after being told for years by people you trusted that Harry Potter will _never_ take your side. That he will always hate purebloods. And not that you've ever done anything to me and mine, but you've certainly never given us the impression that you ever thought that we could be on the same side."

Harry nods, accepting his past blinders. "I've certainly bollixed some things up with that. But in my defense, most of my experiences with Slytherins began and ended with the Malfoys, Snape and Voldemort."

Astoria turns to look at him levelly. "Obviously, there is no excusing the Dark Lord. But you had some sort of last-minute reconciliation with Professor Snape, did you not? That's why you treat his portrait with such respect?"

"A post-mortem reconciliation, more like," Harry mutters wryly. "But yeah. He loved my mum and kept his word to protect me, even though I'm the spitting image of the boy who'd humiliated him for years, and the man he lost my mum to."

The Slytherin girl nods thoughtfully. "And even Draco is making amends, in his own way, is he not?"

Harry considers this. "He is, I suppose. He tried not to identify me when R… when Hermione and I were captured by the Snatchers last year. And of course he saved Hermione, and it doesn't matter to me what his exact reasons were. She's alive because of him."

Astoria bites her lip, her expression hesitant. "I admit that I'm far from unbiased when it comes to Draco. But I can tell you with certainty that the boy you fought with for six years is not the same person at Hogwarts today."

"I know," Harry murmurs. "Nor am I."

They walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes. "So, you and Malfoy, then?" Harry asks with a smile. She's a sight better than Pansy Parkinson, that's for sure.

Astoria Greengrass, who has to be one of the most cool-headed and composed people Harry has ever met, turns tomato red.

"I wouldn't really venture that far," she says primly, ducking her head. "He knows how I feel, and I know how he feels, or _felt_, at least, two years ago, during your sixth year. But I made it clear that I would not accompany him down the path he was following, that it would only lead to torture and death at a madman's hands. And now," she spreads her hands helplessly, "I've no idea where we stand."

"Well, Merlin knows I'm hopeless at relationships," Harry says. "But even I could see how he looked at you when you snuck me into the Slytherin dorms. I'd've had to be blind to miss it."

Astoria's blush, which had almost completely faded, returns with a vengeance, and she quickly changes the subject. "The whole reason I wanted to talk to you today was to discuss what you're going to do about Nott. Have you made any plans?"

"Do about Nott?" Harry repeats, confused. "Isn't McGonagall handling that?"

Astoria nods. "Yes, and the Ministry should have him by now. I meant as far as legal action, though. I doubt she will want to get involved, so someone will need to start proceedings against him fairly soon if you want him to stay in custody."

Harry runs his hands through his hair, realizing that this is yet another important aspect of magical culture that no one has ever taught him. "I don't know much of anything about how wizarding trials are supposed to work. The only ones I've seen are some of the Death Eater trials in the last war – in Dumbledore's Pensieve," he explains at Astoria's confused look, "and my own a few years ago, where Umbridge and Fudge tried their best to have me expelled."

"Our laws are…complicated," Astoria admits. "Many of them are more traditions than anything else, and even the written rules can be ignored if you have someone with enough political power to do it. The Minister, for example, is supposed to be bound by the laws the same as anyone else, but he or she usually…isn't."

_Then they aren't really laws at all, are they, if some people get to ignore them?_ Once again, Harry has to fight down the urge to swoop in and _fix._ No one is going to listen to an eighteen-year-old, anyway. Best to focus on what he _can_ control.

"What do you think I should I do about Nott?" he asks Astoria.

She looks surprised, as if she wasn't expecting the question, but she has a ready response. "You need a solicitor, unless you want to drop out of Hogwarts and take it over yourself. Preferably someone who isn't Muggleborn, or it might make the case look biased, if a Muggleborn is prosecuting someone for an anti-Muggleborn crime."

"Right." Of course it would be asking too much of the magical world to overlook politics for a fucking _murder trial_. "How do I find someone, then?"

"Well…" Astoria hesitates. "I swear I hadn't planned this out, and I'll understand if you aren't interested, but Tracey's father could do it. And representing Granger's interests would help our reputation for us as purebloods, too, so it could be a step for you toward meeting your side of our arrangement."

Harry doesn't answer her for a few minutes, trying to think through all the implications of her suggestion as they make their slow circuit around the castle, and Astoria walks silently beside him. "Tracey's father," he says finally, "if our positions were reversed, would you want him to represent you?"

"Yes," Astoria says immediately. "Titus Davis is one of the most intelligent people I've ever met, and he will do anything to protect our reputation as purebloods. It would be in his own best interest to win this case."

"Okay," Harry says, making his decision. He'll need to talk with Hermione to make sure this is what she wants, but he thinks she will agree. "Tell me how to get in touch with him."

* * *

When he and Astoria part at the entrance to the castle, the sun is low on the horizon, and Harry is startled to realize he is actually _hungry_ for the first time in days. He rushes up the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower, eager to wash up and see Hermione again.

When he steps through the portrait hole, Dean and Seamus are playing chess in the nearest corner. They grin as they abandon their game and walk over to him. "We saw Hermione, mate," Seamus says cheerfully, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Ginny said she's all cured. Congratulations are in order, eh?"

"I'm so glad about Hermione," Dean says, lowering his voice as Seamus is abruptly distracted by a girl Harry doesn't recognize coming in through the portrait hole. "But don't forget what we talked about, yeah?"

Harry nods. What with him being distracted by Hermione's poisoning, and now with what to do about Theodore Nott, he'd completely forgotten about his conversation with Dean. "I'll talk to her," he promises. _I'll fix this_, he wants to add, meaning all the bad blood between the purebloods and the Muggleborns like Dean, but he doesn't. Hermione is his priority, and fulfilling his promise to Astoria and the others. He can't fix everything.

Dean turns to join Seamus, who is laughing loudly at something the girl is saying. "Dean?" Harry says, remembering the previous tension between the two friends. He nods toward Seamus. "I guess you worked things out?"

Dean chuckles. "You know how the Irish are, Harry. Flare of temper, then they forget what they're even fighting about. He's my best mate; we can't stay angry at each other for too long."

Harry grins half-heartedly, waving to Dean and Seamus and continuing up the stairs to his dormitory, his good mood fading. Yes, he'd known exactly what that was like.

* * *

After a shower, Harry comes downstairs to a Common Room much busier than earlier, packed with students preparing to go downstairs for dinner. He vows to himself to focus on Hermione tonight, and worry about everything else later.

Hermione and Ginny are sitting on a couch in front of the fireplace, talking animatedly. They have both changed into new robes, and Hermione's hair is pulled back neatly into a ponytail. She is too pale and thin, but she still looks wonderful to him.

They both turn to him as he walks over. "Ready for dinner?" Hermione asks as Ginny helps her stand. Her legs look a little unsteady as she rises, but her expression dares him to comment on it, so he wordlessly offers her his arm instead.

She takes it, looking toward the portrait hole with a slight hint of trepidation. "Just don't let me fall," she says.

"Never," he agrees.

Ginny comes up on her other side and links her arm through Hermione's free arm. "We've got you, Hermione. Don't worry." Hermione smiles, and they begin the long walk to the Great Hall.

They have to go slowly, and the second time Hermione loses her footing on one of the staircases and Harry and Ginny have to hold her upright until she regains her balance, Hermione glares at Harry like he's spoken his suggestion that they use a spell to help aloud instead of thinking it. "I can do this," she says pointedly, taking another step down on shaky legs.

"I didn't say a word," Harry replies, confused.

She rolls her eyes. "You didn't have to – I've known you long enough to know what you're thinking." Now _there_ is a scary thought.

They stop so Hermione can catch her breath once they reach the ground floor, and she has to lean on him so heavily that he is taking at least half her body weight. He tries to keep how much her newfound fragility upsets him off his face, how it is _his fault_ that she is hurt (if he had just been smarter, if he had watched out for her, if he had kept her safe...) He evidently fails, though, since Ginny says gently, "She's alright, Harry. She just needs to get her strength back, that's all. The walking is good for her."

Hermione nods heavily against his shoulder. "I really am fine. But I'll let you levitate me back if it'll make you feel better." He can hear the resignation in her voice, and he knows she will actually let him do that if it will make him feel better.

He chuckles as they approach the massive doorway leading to the Hall. "Only if you want me to," he says, imagining the expression of horror on Hermione's face if he _Wingardium Leviosa_-ed her up the stairs on the way back.

As they enter the Great Hall, he looks up to note with surprise that every eye in the room is on them. Conversations drop off as he and Ginny lead Hermione forward, creating an expanding silence in the large room as they trudge forward.

Harry's eyes automatically dart to the section of the Gryffindor table where he and his housemates usually sit. His eyes widen as Neville, the boy who once spoke with a perpetual tremble in his voice and could barely look his teachers in the eye, stands and begins clapping. His back is straight and his posture is confident as he smiles at Hermione.

Harry catches a blur of pale blonde hair from the corner of his eye, and he looks over to see Luna rising at the Ravenclaw table, a matching smile on her face as she waves at them, and then begins clapping. Seamus and Dean, across from Neville, are next, both applauding enthusiastically.

The applause spreads and soon Harry can see clapping hands at all four tables. By the time he helps Hermione sit down, she is blushing red, but her eyes are bright. "Thank you," she says, though Harry can only see her lips move.

As the applause dies down, McGonagall rises from her seat at the long Professors' table at the front of the room. She holds her wand to her throat. "Welcome back, Ms. Granger," she says simply. "Welcome back."

* * *

_A/N: Really sorry for the delay, guys. :( I had a lot of trouble writing this chapter and I don't even know why. I kept sitting down to write it and would write out future scenes instead. The good news is that the next couple of chapters should come out relatively quickly since I've already written so much of them._

_Thanks to all who read and review. _


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

_"No man is rich enough to buy back his past."  
- Oscar Wilde_

Over the next week, Harry's life falls into a routine as perhaps it should have done when he first returned to Hogwarts.

Hermione speaks, and that is magic in and of itself, though she seems to have little to say to anyone besides him and Ginny. In class, where she would have once been raising her hand, volunteering information for every question the professors asked, she sits silent, her head down as she takes meticulous notes in her neat handwriting.

Ginny's moods flow like water, from wide smiles at him and Hermione to sullen stillness to the rages that she tries to suppress yet occasionally leak out anyway. He has caught her watching him and Hermione with guarded eyes, but she never tells them what she is thinking.

At times Harry's thoughts return unbidden to their conversation before Hermione woke. Every time he tries to think of how he could possibly respond to her, his heart starts beating rapidly like he is chasing the Snitch in an important Quidditch match (back when Quidditch mattered to him), and he blocks the topic from his head.

The three of them are together again, as they should be, but still something doesn't feel right, and it isn't just because of Ron's absence.

Harry knows his other friends can see it; Neville watches them with a worried expression on his face as they sit together for dinner, and even Seamus, who is by far the most talkative of the boys in their year, is cheerfully polite yet says little to them.

Harry watches Hermione and Ginny in his turn, making sure they are both eating, and he sits with them in the library as they dutifully do their homework like the innocent children they aren't. Yet when all his tasks are done he finds himself falling into a gloomy mental state that he can't seem to shake.

With Hermione healed, his purpose is gone – _again_ – and he can't seem to find a new one. Even his obligation to the Purebloods is on hold - Titus Davis seems to be taking his sweet time getting back to him, so Harry is left adrift, waiting in anxious anticipation for something he cannot name.

He even catches McGonagall, who has to be incredibly busy teaching Transfiguration and fulfilling all her duties as Headmistress, looking at him with an unreadable expression in class, as if she is waiting for him to do something.

Something is building; a dam is going to burst soon, and Harry expects he will not like it when it does.

* * *

After dinner on Friday night, Harry and Ginny return to the Common Room while Hermione rushes back to the library before it closes, trying to finish yet another assignment to catch up with what she missed while she was in stasis.

Ginny seems much more inclined to share Harry's sentiment that as long as he is passing his exams he is doing fine. As he sits down next to her on one of the long sofas, he notices two girls who look vaguely familiar to him casting Ginny fearful looks from their own cluster of armchairs. He thinks he recognizes them as Ginny's friends, though he hasn't seen her speak to them since coming back to Hogwarts.

The girls stare at Ginny and then whisper and nudge each other, almost as if they want to come over and talk to her but can't work up the nerve.

"Did you have a fight with them or something?" Harry asks her when it is clear that she is not going to acknowledge them.

Ginny looks up from the fireplace and narrows her eyes when she sees where's he looking. The girls flinch and turn back toward their corner. "They _don't get it_," she says angrily. "They wouldn't fight. I remember them crying. They didn't - " she cuts off and tries again. "They didn't _lose_ anyone. I look at them and – what if they'd fought? They're supposed to be Gryffindors, aren't they?" She looks down, clutching a throw pillow to her chest. "Just… what if we'd made everyone who could wield a wand fight? It might have turned out differently."

"Ginny," he says softly. "We couldn't force anyone to fight for us." _Even if it would have saved Ron? _Harry's heart clenches just considering the possibility. "It wouldn't have been right, or fair."

"Do you know what's not fair?" she says, and the anger is gone from her voice, leaving a tired blankness that he hates hearing even more than her rage. "Having to look at those two cowards when my brother was worth ten of them! Why do _they_ get to live and he doesn't?"

"I don't know," Harry says honestly.

She doesn't respond, and he wraps his arm around her, wanting to comfort her but unsure how. He expects her to push him away, but to his surprise she rests her head on his shoulder. Eventually, the tension in her frame relaxes.

They sit together, staring at the flames, until the Common Room empties out and they finally leave for their own dormitories.

* * *

That night, Harry has another nightmare, one of the worst he's had in weeks. He is running around the castle as it shakes with screams, overrun with Death Eaters, and searches frantically for his friends. Every time he finds one of them – Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Luna – they die in his arms.

He is breathing hard as he sits up bolt upright in his bed. Wiping his forehead, which comes away with sweat, he opens the his four-poster curtains enough to see Ron's bed still next to his.

He hasn't been able to bring himself to touch it, though he has a feeling it will feel solid under his hands. "Why am I still seeing you?" he whispers to it angrily. Is it supposed to remind him that Ron is dead and never coming back? If so, it's really, really unnecessary. He remembers _that_ every second of the day.

He suddenly can't stand to be sitting in the dark, staring at his best friend's abandoned bed for another second. He throws the covers back and practically runs from the room.

As he walks down the stairs toward the Common Room, flickers of light from a low-burning fire in one of the fireplaces catches his eye. He finds Hermione sitting on the floor, her back braced against a sofa, textbooks and notes spread out in front of her.

"What are you doing up?" he asks, stopping beside her. She had barely stopped to wave at him and Ginny when she'd gotten back to the Common Room that evening, and she is wearing the same jumper he saw her in then. "You haven't gone to bed at all, have you?"

She barely glances at him. "I couldn't, Harry - I have so much catching up to do." She flips through the pages of the spell book in front of her with manic speed. "I have no idea how I'll have time to get in enough studying before mid-terms."

He watches her for a long moment, her head bowed and her shoulders tense. "Are you alright?" he asks after a moment.

She stills, and her head comes up. "What do you mean?" she asks guardedly. "I'm fine. I'm healed, remember? I'm perfectly healthy."

He shakes his head, not sure what he's trying to ask. "You just…I dunno, you're not acting like someone who just woke up a few days ago from attempted murder. Or–" he clears his throat "–like you were before that."

To his shock, Hermione's eyes fill with tears. "Please, tell me how I'm _supposed_ to act, Harry!" she says acidly, pushing her textbook away from her. "My – my _boyfriend_, my best friend – is dead. Then I was almost murdered because my parents – who, I might add, are living a happily childless life in Australia – had the audacity to be born without magic." She wipes her eyes. "And it _hurts_. I wasn't talking before because it hurt too much, but it seems so _childish_ now."

She runs her hands through her hair, evidently forgetting it is tied back, and strands fall back into her face. "And you're…not right, and Ginny's not right and I don't know how to fix that, either! Show me the book that tells me how to deal with that, Harry! Point me in the right direction."

"I can't," he admits, sitting down heavily beside her on the floor. "I don't know what to do myself, Hermione."

"Make it up as you go along, Harry. That's what you do best. Lead and I'll follow." She reaches for her stacks of notes, distractedly sorting them into piles. "Just…I'm lost. I don't know where I'm supposed to go from here. But if it's going to feel like this forever, then I want nothing to do with it."

"It won't," he says desperately, not sure if that is true but determined to make it true for Hermione's sake. "We're going to get through this. We'll come out the other side."

She drops her head to his shoulder wearily, and when she speaks, her voice is muffled. "I want to believe that, Harry, I really do."

He helps her gather her books and notes. "Believe it," he says, holding his hand out to help her up, and she lets him lead her to the base of the girls' stairwell.

"Hermione-" he hesitates, not sure what he wants to say next. "Get some sleep," he says finally. _I can't lose you again_, he wants to tell her, but it seems so needy and pathetic that he can't bring himself to say it aloud.

"I'll try," she says softly. "You, too."

"Yeah." He turns to go. "I will."

* * *

Harry manages to fall back into an uneasy sleep, but he wakes again as daybreak is barely streaking across his dormitory.

The first thing thought he is aware of upon waking is the sudden realization that he has another ally, someone he had once trusted with his life – he had gotten so out of practice at thinking of him as someone he could talk to over the last year, and he'd forgotten that all the previous headmasters had portraits at Hogwarts.

He'd forgotten that he could talk to Dumbledore.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he hurries down the stairs and out of the Common Room. A few hallways from the Headmistress's office, he catches McGonagall coming around the corner, already dressed for the day.

She stops when she sees him and raises an eyebrow. "All is well, I hope, Mr. Potter?"

He takes a deep breath. "Professor, would it be possible for me to talk to Dumbledore?"

She doesn't look surprised. "I was wondering when you would ask," she says with a heavy sigh. She gestures him in front of her. "He has been asking about you."

Harry doesn't know what to say to that, and they walk back toward her office in silence.

McGonagall taps the gargoyle guarding the entrance with her wand, and it springs away, revealing the circular stairway leading up to her office. "You know the way, Harry. I have several meetings this morning, so there is no rush."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry says.

She gives him one more penetrating look before nodding and turning to go, and he steps onto the moving staircase.

At the top, he takes one more calming breath and pushes the door open.

His eyes go straight to where Dumbledore's portrait hangs across from McGonagall's desk. Unlike the last time Harry was in this office, Dumbledore is in his picture frame, wearing midnight blue robes and staring directly at him.

"Hello, Headmaster." Harry says it quietly, even though no one is around to hear him.

"My dear boy," Dumbledore says somberly, taking off his half-moon spectacles and peering down at him. "I have no words to express how very sorry I am for your loss."

For some reason, the headmaster's words penetrate the ever-present shroud of grief that Harry has carried around with him since the day that Ron died more deeply than almost anyone else's has. Perhaps it is because they share the burden of guilt for inadvertently leading someone they loved to their death.

"Professor," Harry whispers to the floor when he thinks he can speak without crying. "Did you ever get over losing Ariana?"

He thinks he already knows the answer, but he waits as the headmaster gives him a look full of old pain. "Time heals all things, Harry," Dumbledore says slowly, "but her death left scars on me that did not fade."

Harry nods and has already turned to walk away when Dumbledore speaks again.

"Her death also altered me for the better, Harry. I changed the course of my life after she died, and I determined to be a better man because of it."

"But she was dead," Harry says uncomprehendingly as he turns back to the portrait, not caring if he sounds rude. Why does nobody seem to understand that what he does _now_ doesn't matter, when Ron is already gone? "So it's not like it could have mattered to her."

Dumbledore inclines his head. "Perhaps not. But she would have been delighted to think that something positive had resulted from her death, and that means something to me. And whether or not she could have known it, which I daresay is a discussion for another time, I am arrogant enough to believe that my change of heart also impacted many of the living for the better."

Harry nods slowly, accepting the words. "I think it did, Professor," he says truthfully.

He realizes suddenly how very much he misses Dumbledore. He had grieved for him, but the past year had been so nerve-wracking, so traumatic that he never really had the chance to stop and think about how awful it was that Dumbledore was gone forever from the world.

"I saw you, after Voldemort killed me," he tells Dumbledore. "Though it could have been a dream, or a hallucination, I suppose, and not really you." Harry run his hands through his hair, frustrated that he can't adequately explain his bizarre memory of being dead. "Though _you're_ not really you, either, are you?"

Dumbledore seems to know what he means and shakes his head. "I am but an impression and a shadow, Harry. My soul has passed on to wherever it is souls go after this life."

Harry is struck with a terrible, wonderful idea. He'd been so upset after Sirius's death that he'd only thought to ask Nearly Headless Nick, but if anyone would know, surely it was _Dumbledore_.

"Professor," he says. "Is there any way-"

But Dumbledore is already frowning. "Do not think on it, Harry. There is no true window between this life and the next. To experience the afterlife is to walk through that door yourself - dead. Anything else is a lie, in the same way that the Resurrection Stone and portraits are lies."

"Then what's the point of them?" Harry says bitterly, not really expecting an answer. What's the point of a castle that has moving staircases, of using broomsticks to fly? It's just the way magic is.

To his surprise, Dumbledore answers him seriously. "They are aids, Harry, tools – nothing more and nothing less. They help the living hold on to the knowledge the deceased possessed, and sometimes they give the living the opportunity to say goodbye to those they have lost."

_Goodbye_. The word echoes in Harry's head, and he realizes there was never a goodbye for his best friend. There was only a _wasn't there anymore _and _my chest hurts why does my chest hurt_ and_ why god why couldn't it be me instead of him?_

"People die all the time in the Muggle world, though," Harry says, trying to talk himself out of something he's not entirely sure he's really considering. "They don't have any magical way to say goodbye, and they turn out alright."

"Muggles adapt quite remarkably well to death, this is true," Dumbledore agrees. "Yet I highly doubt a tenth of them have lost someone close to them in a scenario such as yours." He nods toward the far side of the room, where an ornately-carved wooden cupboard stands. "My Pensieve is still there, Harry. Headmistress McGonagall will lend it to you, I am certain."

"I-" Harry's mouth goes dry. "Professor, I can't-"

"You _can_, Harry." Dumbledore's voice is firm. "I told you in your fifth year, when I informed you of the prophecy concerning you, that I would treat you as a man. And so I will not presume to tell you what you should do - only that my advice, freely offered, is that you will be better for confronting your memories. What you discover may surprise you."

Harry is scared – no, he is _terrified_. He feels like he is looking over the edge of an endless abyss, and he doesn't know if he will survive the fall.

But he doesn't have to do it alone.

It all falls into place - Hermione and Ginny need to be there, too. They all must confront the past that has haunted them for months if they are to move forward. They will support each other.

His heart pounding in his chest, Harry makes his decision. "Thank you, Professor."

He turns and walks away.

* * *

Harry tells them at lunch.

Ginny pales, her knuckles tightening around the fork in her hand. "No," she says immediately.

"Ginny-" Harry starts, but she is already pushing away from the table and storming out of the Great Hall, her back rigid.

He doesn't follow her. He is learning – he _thinks_ he is learning – that sometimes Ginny just needs space. She would hate to hear him say it, but she is so much like Ron in this way. He will talk to her when she's had a chance to calm down a bit.

Instead he turns to Hermione, who still hasn't moved, her expression blank.

"What do you think?" he asks her.

She shakes her head as if to clear her mind and turns to him. "I think-" she hesitates. "I think it sounds horrible, honestly. I think I'd rather be attacked by Blast-Ended Skrewts. But I also know I'm probably not in the right frame of mind to judge what's best for me right now. And-" she swallows. "And I trust Dumbledore and you, Harry. And if you both say we need to do this, then I'll do it."

There is something so fragile in Hermione's expression that Harry hates to see. She has always been so strong. He wraps his arm around her shoulders, and she leans her head on his shoulder wearily.

"How soon can we do it?" she asks after a couple minutes. "I just - I'm not going to be able to think about anything else until it's over."

"Soon," Harry promises. "I just need to get Ginny to agree. I think Dumbledore's right - all three of us need this."

"I believe you," she says. She lifts her head and gently slides out from under his arm. "Go talk to Ginny, Harry. I think she'll have calmed down enough by now."

He rises but doesn't step away from the table. "Only if you come, too. We're in this together, right?"

She opens her mouth to protest, but he keeps his expression calm and implacable. "Alright," she says finally. "Together."

They find Ginny outside the castle a few minutes later, sitting on the stone steps leading up to one of the side entrances to the Entrance Hall. Her knees are drawn up to her chest and her eyes are far away, and she doesn't say anything as Harry and Hermione sit on either side of her. Harry stays silent, wanting her to speak on her own terms.

It's a beautiful autumn day, the sun bright overhead but not hot, casting a warm glow over the verdant Hogwarts grounds. The bright copper strands of Ginny's hair catch the sunlight like fire, and even Hermione's chestnut brown hair glitters in the sun.

"I can't do what you want me to, Harry," Ginny says abruptly, her expression pained as she turns to him.

"I know that you can," Harry tells her truthfully. He's convinced that Ginny can do just about anything she puts her mind to, from sheer force of will alone. "I wouldn't ask you if I didn't believe you were strong enough."

Ginny tucks her chin to her knees, her shoulders slumping. "I don't understand what purpose reliving it will serve," she mutters.

"Dumbledore thinks it will give us a chance to say goodbye."

"I don't _want_ to say goodbye," she snaps.

On Ginny's other side, Hermione speaks up, her voice gentle. "I think that's exactly why we need to do it, Ginny."

Harry nods. "We're not…we're not handling this right, Ginny. I think we've got to go back so we can go forward."

Ginny presses her lips together. "I'm scared," she admits finally, and Harry knows how hard that was for her to admit. He takes her hand, and she lets him interlace her fingers with his.

"I am, too," he admits, staring down at their clasped hands. Hermione murmurs agreement on Ginny's other side and takes her other hand. "But we've got each other, and that counts for something."

* * *

McGonagall summons the three of them to her office that evening after dinner. "Thank you for coming," she says, pinning them all with her piercing gaze as they file into her office. "I suspect you know what this is about. I spoke with Headmaster Dumbledore's portrait this morning. I have also consulted with Professor Baggins. She has seen great success at St. Mungo's using Pensieves as tools for her patients to confront traumatic memories."

She looks at each of them in turn, and something in her expression softens. "We are all agreed that what you may gain from observing that terrible event when you lost someone who was so important to each of you will outweigh the pain of the experience. However, know that I will not try to force you. You are all of age, and your decisions are your own."

"We've discussed this, Professor," Harry says, his voice sounding distant to his ears as it dawns on him how very close this is to happening. "We'll do it." Hermione and Ginny give tiny nods of agreement.

McGonagall rises. "Very well," she says, and she gestures them through a door that connects her main office to a small room that Harry has never been into before. The Pensieve, with its otherworldly silver glow, sits on a low table at the center of the room, across from two small sofas and a wooden desk in the corner.

The Headmistress flicks her wand, and there a large covered food tray appears on the desk. "There will be food here, and as much rest and companionship as you need, until you are ready to face your past. I will not disturb you - take as much time as you need."

Harry nods, his throat tight.

McGonagall looks at them like she wants to say something else, but then she nods once and sweeps out in a flurry of robes. The door clicks firmly shut behind her, and Harry, Ginny and Hermione are left alone.

They stare at each other in silence, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Harry is tempted to curl up on one of the sofas and try to fall asleep to postpone what he knows he must do, but there is no point in delaying the inevitable.

He brings his wand to his temple, his hands shaking, and drops the silver memory of that awful day into the Pensieve. It dissolves into the vaporous mist that swirls in the basin.

"Alright?" he asks Hermione and Ginny, and his voice has an embarrassing quaver in it. Hermione bites her lip as she always does when she's nervous, and Ginny stares at the Pensieve as if it holds a live adder.

Finally, Ginny steps forward, reaching out to clutch Harry's arm tightly as if she's not sure she can take the steps without help. Hermione, looking like she might faint, comes to stand on his other side.

Together, they bring their faces to the basin, and before Harry can take another breath, they are falling into the past.

* * *

_The next chapter will follow very shortly. The Pensieve memory is actually one of the very first scenes I wrote in this story – over three years ago now, wow._

_Thanks for reading/reviewing._


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